Unsolved
by Jenz127
Summary: COMPLETE! DS Isabella Byrne is sacked from the Metropolitan Police after an investigation goes wrong. She is sent to help solve one of the greatest unsolved crimes of the nineteenth century, the 'Jack the Ripper' murders. Please Read and Review!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer - I do not own any of the Arthur Conan Doyle characters. Really, I don't. 

Hi everyone. Hope you like my next attempt. A bit of a time-travel story!

**Unsolved**

**Chapter 1**

"Detective Sergeant Byrne?"

Isabella looked up from at the secretary calling her name and stood. Well, this was it. This was what would decide her future. Isabella's - or Izzy, as she preferred to be called - stomach seemed like it was full of a myriad of winged insects doing some sort of aerobatic display. She tried to calm herself, telling herself that there was nothing to worry about, and that everything would be fine. She walked towards the big, imposing looking door and opened it. Inside sat three official looking men behind a table. This was it. Her disciplinary.

The reason for her being given a disciplinary seemed not a little unfair. She had, yes, made a few errors in dealing with a certain case, but if the person involved hadn't been a Lord, none of this would have happened. She and her superior officer, Detective Inspector Bridges had been called to the scene of a crime in the Belgravia area of London, where a woman had been found hung. She was the wife of a Lord Christopher St. Thomas, a member of the House of Lords. Halfway through the investigation, DI Bridges had been struck down with some mystery illness, and due to staff shortages, Izzy had been given responsibility for the case, and an opportunity to prove herself. She had arrested Lord St. Thomas, the evidence meaning she was absolutely certain of his guilt. However, the day after his arrest, the pathologist had got in contact with her to say that there had been a mistake. Lady St. Thomas had committed suicide. Despite Izzy's apologies, Lord St. Thomas had been absolutely furious, and had demanded that she be subject to a disciplinary. Which was the reason that she had today come to New Scotland Yard.

What was even worse was that Izzy's brother worked at The Yard. Izzy was one of four children, and the second youngest. The eldest was Peter, who was in his early thirties and a Detective Inspector. He was hailed as one of the best Inspectors in the Met by his superiors, and Izzy found it a little difficult to keep up with her high-flying brother. It was why she worked twelve or even fourteen hour days, signed up for various training initiatives, and never seemed to have much of a social life. When her colleagues were going out for a drink at the end of the day, Izzy worked for another four hours, then went to the gym, and then went home. Izzy's sister was twenty-eight and a bit of a super-woman. Janey managed to juggle two small children, a husband, and a job as a barrister, and still always looked blonde and immaculate. Izzy was the exact opposite to her older sister in many ways. She had never had a boyfriend, was the only one of her siblings who had inherited their mother's dark hair and eyes, and was tall and athletic, whereas her sister was petite and slender. Izzy's younger brother, Barnaby, was 19 and at Cambridge University, studying Law and International Relations. His ambition was to work for the government. Izzy cringed as she pictured her sibling's faces if she lost her job. No, she would think positive.

She nodded to the three men in front of her and took a seat. One, she recognised as her boss, DCI Daniel Summers. He smiled at Izzy encouragingly. He had always had a bit of a soft spot for the young and dedicated Sergeant. The other two men were slightly familiar. They were both older, with greying hair. One, she remembered, was Daniel's boss, Detective Superintendent Gladstone. The other also looked familiar but she couldn't quite place him…

"Detective Sergeant Byrne," DCI Summers said "may I introduce Detective Superintendent William Gladstone and Sir Robert Matthias." Izzy felt a lurch in her stomach, when she realised who the man was. The Commissioner. The Head of the Metropolitan Police. Izzy realised then how much trouble she was in. Summers continued "Detective Sergeant Isabella Byrne."

Gladstone looked at Izzy coldly and said "I hope, DS Byrne, you realise the gravity of the matter."

"Yes sir."

"Lord St. Thomas is one of the most affluent members of the House of Lords in the country. He could make us doing our jobs very difficult."

"I understand that, sir."

"I do not see how you could have gone so wrong."

"I'm sorry, sir, I truly am. But I did receive erroneous information from the pathologists on the case…"

"You cannot shift the blame to someone else, DS Byrne. You should have checked the pathologist's report and asked for a second opinion."

"I did sir. The problem was that my suspect was about to leave the country. I believed that I had all the evidence I needed to arrest him for murder."

"Well, you were wrong, weren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

Gladstone turned to the Commissioner "My opinion, sir, is that this officer should be sacked from the police service."

DCI Summers spoke up "If I may say something sir? I believe that sacking DS Byrne from the Met would not be completely wise. She is a first class police Officer, and if I might say that she is being used as a scapegoat by Lord St. Thomas and by the service. If the accused was not a member of the house of Lords, I daresay we would not be having this conversation."

Gladstone snarled at him "Are you suggesting…?"

"Gentlemen!" Sir Matthias said, and immediately the two men were quiet. The Commissioner turned to Izzy "You are the sister of DI Peter Byrne, are you not?"

Izzy grimaced. Why was it that every time she had a conversation with someone, they would always have to remind her what a wonderful brother she had? "Yes, sir."

"He is a marvellous police Officer."

"So I have been told, sir."

"DS Byrne, do you enjoy your job?"

"Yes, sir. Very much."

The Commissioner sighed. "I see. Detective Superintendent Gladstone has made a valid point. St. Thomas has a lot of friends in high places. And I agree with DCI Summers. I grieves me to say it, but you are being made into a scapegoat. I have no doubt that you are a first class Officer, so I will offer you a choice. Either you resign from the service, or you are demoted to a uniformed Police Constable, with no access to becoming a Detective. I will not sack you, but I will give you the chance to choose."

Izzy thought about it only for a moment. She thought about the looks of disappointment on Janey and Barnaby's faces, and the look of triumph on Peter's face on hearing the news that she had been demoted "I'll resign, sir."

Summers started to say something, but was silenced by the Commissioner, who said "Very well, Miss Byrne. I will not expect you to work your month's notice period."

"Thank you, sir."

Gladstone left the room, seemingly triumphant, and ready to go and tell St. Thomas the 'good news'. Summers also left too, looking dejected, and shaking his head as he passed her. Soon, it was just the Commissioner and Izzy left, Izzy seemingly shocked into silence, the Commissioner looking at her in pity. He stood, collected his coat, and started to leave. When he was on a level with Izzy, he stopped, and slipped her a small card with 'M.Lastoric, 17, Anthony Street, Chelsea' written on it. "I'll tell him to expect you tomorrow" the Commissioner said, and left before Izzy could ask him any questions. Confused, and feeling utterly numb, Izzy left the room, picked up her coat and bag, and walked out of The Yard.

As she walked to the courtyard outside the Yard, she heard a voice calling her name. She turned, to see Peter walking out after her, grinning. Izzy sighed and muttered under her breath "Oh, heavens…"

Peter caught up with her "so, I hear they gave you the boot? Or did you honourably resign? See, if they'd put me on that case, I would never had made such a stupid mistake."

Izzy felt the anger build up inside her "Peter, I'm warning you. Just leave it."

"Or what? _Miss_ Byrne…"

Izzy turned to him and without warning, punched him hard on the nose, breaking it, she was sure. Peter let out a yowl of pain, as blood started to pour from his nose. "Or that!" Izzy said, turned and walked off down the road.

Peter called after her "I'll have you arrested for assault."

"You just do that." Izzy shouted back "Knowing how popular you are around here, it'll take a couple of hours for you to find a police officer who won't just laugh at you and walk away."

With that, Izzy walked off down the street, to take the Underground to Baker Street, where her flat was. When she got in, she fell back onto her bed, but felt strangely alright. She took the card from her pocket that the Commissioner had given her. Who was this mysterious 'M. Lastoric'? Why was the Commissioner sending her there? Izzy sighed, half expecting it to be some sort of shrink to stop her topping herself. There was something in the back of her mind though, that said 'Perhaps…perhaps…this is something else.' Utterly tired, Izzy fell to sleep right there on the bed, not even removing her coat. Her dreams were full of mysterious, dark-coated men, and long, long dark passages, and screams…


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer - I do not own any of the Sherlock Holmes characters. Nor for that matter do I own any of the TV/Movie/Book characters which Isabella makes reference to. But Isabella is mine. So there. 

Chapter 2

When Izzy woke that morning at seven o'clock she had to stop herself getting out of bed and walking off to work. She sat up, and realised that she still had her coat on, and took it off, together with her suit jacket.

She heard a buzzing noise and for a moment was unsure what it was. Then, she realised that the noise had come from her handbag and reached down to find that she had several unread messages on her mobile phone. The first was from Peter. It read; _Just off to work. Hope you are enjoying your lie in. Expect to hear from my lawyer today about charges of assault. Pete_. Izzy shook her head in disgust and deleted the message. The next one was from Janey saying_, Hope all OK. Heard what happened from our idiot older brother. Do you want me to come round? X_. Izzy replied, saying no, she was alright, and was going to meet with a friend of the Commissioner today. The third message was from Barnaby. It said _Hi, are you alright? Want to talk? Call me, will not be in lectures all of today. Love Barney_. Izzy grinned. She was far closer to her younger brother than either of her other siblings, because they were similar. They both felt threatened by the success of their older brother and sister. Izzy replied that she would call Barney that evening, but that he had better go to his lectures, no matter how boring they were.

The last, and latest message she had received was from DCI Summers. Izzy, It read, _Do you want to come out for a drink tonight? Maybe it would be good to talk? Hope you can join me, 8pm at the Carver's Arms? Dan_. Izzy sighed, realising that her boss was, for better or worse, trying to be helpful and sent a message back telling him thank you, but no thanks. She stretched out on the bed, and fell back to sleep for a few hours. At nine o'clock, she woke again, and decided that now was as good a time as any to get up. She dressed, and ate breakfast, and resigned herself to a morning watching trashy daytime TV.

Suddenly, the phone went. Izzy sighed, expecting it to be Janey or Barnaby wanting to talk, but it was neither. "Is this Miss Byrne?" said the voice. It was the voice of a man, although it was difficult to tell the age, deep and steady.

"Yes."

"My name is Lastoric. Please be at my office by eleven o'clock today. Thank you."

"Mr Last…" But Lastoric had rung off. "Oh, OK then." Izzy said to herself. She was in two minds at that moment. She shouldn't really go…it could be dangerous. But the Detective in Izzy wanted to know what was going on. She looked up at the clock. It would take her half an hour to get to the offices at this time of day. If she was going to go, she'd better go now. Making her decision, Izzy pulled her jacket on, and went out the door, running to the tube station, and getting the tube to Knightsbridge Station.

When she got to the high street, she made her way through the crowds of morning shoppers to the end of the shopping area, where she found Anthony Street. To her disappointment, it looked like quite an ordinary street, full of solicitors offices, and doctors surgeries. She thought about turning back then, but decided that since she had come all that way, she may as well satisfy her curiosity about this Lastoric person. She found number 17, and looked up. The house was typical for London, three floors, and painted a creamy colour. She knocked on the door, and it opened. A woman stood there. "Yes?" she said.

"I'm here to see a Mr Lastoric. I think he's expecting me."

"Oh, yes. Miss Byrne. Please come in. My name is Mrs White. Come with me."

Mrs White led Izzy up the stairs, and knocked on a door, which had gold letters on it reading 'M.Lastoric'. "Come in" said a voice, and they entered.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn, and only electric light coming from two lamps on the desk. Izzy could see a figure sitting on a chair at the desk. As Mrs White announced her, Lastoric leaned into the light, and Izzy felt a slightly disappointed. He was not gruesomely scared or in any way unusual looking. He was about forty, with grey hair, and blue eyes. He wore glasses, and put Izzy in mind of a professor who had taught her at university. "Ah, yes," he said "Miss Byrne. Please sit down. Refreshments?"

"Er…no thanks."

"I hear you recently lost your job. I am sorry. The commissioner told me that you are a fine Detective."

Izzy shook her head "Not as fine as my brother, it seems."

Lastoric smiled "Ah, yes. Your brother. Arrogant, self-righteous…that describe him?"

"Amply"

"There is a reason, Miss Byrne, that the Commissioner sent you here instead of your brother. I would like to offer you a job."

"No offence, sir, but I can't really see myself as a Private Detective."

"Ah, Miss Byrne…there is so much more…"

"Sir?"

"You see, Miss Byrne, the reason we asked you to come here and not your brother is simple. You, I feel, will be much more open to what we do here."

"And what is that?"

"Solve crimes which have never been solved by the police."

"Oh?" Izzy was more interested by this. She had always had an interest in unsolved crimes. Especially ones her brother had never been able to solve.

"Very old unsolved crimes…"

"But how? Do you work with the police?"

"In a way… May I ask you, Miss Byrne, where do you live?"

"Baker Street…number 22."

"Ah! Now that's interesting. In answer to your question, Miss Byrne, we solve them by re-visiting the crime scene"

"Oh?"

"Yes. At the time the crimes took place."

Izzy stared at him for a moment, and then started to laugh. "What? You can't mean…"

"Oh, yes, Miss Byrne. I mean we go back in time"

Izzy shook her head. The man was obviously absolutely raving mad. "You mean…like Doctor Who?"

"He had the right idea, the Doctor…"

"I'm sorry, I can't…" Izzy got up.

"Do you think the Commissioner would have sent you here if I am as mad as you imagine?"

OK, thought Izzy, don't anger him. Just get out. "I don't think you're mad, sir. I just think I'd better be going…"

"I have seen your past, Isabella. I now that your family has a dark secret…"

Izzy stopped, and turned. Warily, she looked back at Lastoric, who was staring her in the face. She walked back to her chair, and sat "What do you know about me?"

"I know that you're half-Irish and half-Spanish. I know that your parents were Michael Byrne and Katarina Delgardas. I know that you have three siblings, Peter, Janey and Barnaby - or Barney as he likes to be known. I know that you went to school in London, and went to University in London too, where you studied Law and sociology. I know that you are twenty-five years old"

"The Commissioner could have told you all those things…"

"I know that there is one reason why you and all of your siblings went into the field of law - two of you into the police, one as a barrister, one aspiring to be a government operative. It is because your father killed your mother." Izzy stared at him for a moment, wondering how…and why? "How old were you? Eight? Your oldest brother was fifteen, your sister eleven, and young Barney was only one year old. A child in arms. You all hid in the cupboard while your father killed your mother and then himself. You never got over it."

Izzy nodded. "You saw…you saw my past…"

"Yes. I am sorry if you feel that it was an intrusion."

"No. I suppose it was the only way…"

"You believe me?"

"I have to. We never told anyone about what happened that night. No one ever knew." Izzy's felt, strangely, a feeling of relief come over her. This man wasn't mad after all. He was telling the truth.

"Will you help me then? I have one mission that I am not suited to. It's just the one."

"Tell me."

"What do you know of Jack the Ripper?"

"Serial killer. Murdered at least five prostitutes, possibly even more. Took place around 1888."

"Very good. You know your history."

"Did it at school."

"That might serve you very well. The Ripper was never found, and it has been suggested that he changed his mode of killing several times, and carried on, right into the 1900s."

"Is that true?"

"It might be. That's why I would be sending you. I'd place you in the spot of the last known Ripper killing. You would have to investigate further deaths, and try and catch him. It would be dangerous, I warn you."

"I understand. Would you be coming?"

"No. I am older than I look, child. Too old now…"

"Then I'd be alone?"

"There's always the police…and Mr Holmes"

"Holmes?"

"A private investigator. Chronicled by his friend, John Watson…"

"I thought…"

"He was fictional? No. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a friend of Watson's, who published the books in his own name, in exchange for paying for publication. He also worked on the Ripper case. It was one of the only cases he never solved."

"Then I would be helping him?"

"If it came to it. It might be easier for you to work on your own."

"One minute - I'm a woman, wouldn't that limit what I can or can't do? If I'm out at night alone, people might think I'm a prostitute - or worse, Old Jack might."

"You would have to wear men's clothes, cover half your face with a scarf, wear a hat, speak in a deeper voice…"

Izzy nodded "How long would I be gone?"

"That" said Lastoric "is entirely up to you."

Izzy looked at him "I need time to think."

"Come back tonight at eight if you have made your decision."

Izzy nodded, picked up her coat and left the house, walking to one of the nearby parks. When she got there, she sat down on the grass and looked across the park. "What do I do?" she said to herself. "What on earth do I do?" She sat there four some time, before getting up to get some lunch, and then wandering aimlessly around Chelsea. At about half seven, her phone rang. She looked at the screen. It was Barney. "Hey, Barney" she said, answering it.

"Hey, Iz. How are you."

"Good. You? Lectures go OK?"

"Boring as usual. Something up? You sound thoughtful"

"I've been offered a job, and I don't know whether to take it."

"Is it a good job?"

"Very. A friend of the Commissioner."

"Well, that's great. Take it."

"There's one problem. I'd have to go away. Tonight, and I don't know when I'd be back. You wouldn't be able to ring me."

"It's secret?"

"Yep."

"Wow, that's so much better than the Met. Pete will be furious."

"You think I should take it then?"

"Definitely. It sounds like it'll make you happy. In fact, I know it will. You shouldn't worry about us. We'll be OK. Go, and have a great time."

"You'll tell Janey I love her? And the kids?"

"Of course. I love you Izzy. Good luck"

"You too, Barney. Love you."

Izzy rang off and glanced at her watch. It was ten to eight. Making her decision, she ran down the street to Anthony Street, where she banged on the door, and was quickly ushered in by Mrs White. She was taken into a room with some sort of machine in it. Lastoric was at the controls, and in the centre of the room was a round tiled area on the floor, which was lit up. Lastoric looked up as she entered the room, and looked relieved. "No time to talk. Get behind there and change into these clothes. I've put a bag together for you with mission objectives, money and some equipment, including a revolver, that will help you. You can take your phone, but nothing else." Izzy nodded, ran behind a screen, and got changed into some Victorian era men's clothes. She put the scarf and hat on so only her eyes were showing, and tied up her long, black hair so that it fit under the hat. She put her phone into the trouser pocket, and received the bag from Lastoric. "Good luck" he said "Your phone will be able to make calls to this time, but not receive them. I am placing you at the sight of the murder of the fifth victim. Good luck."

"Thanks," said Izzy. She went to stand on the tiled floor, as Lastoric pushed some buttons. Everything seemed to fade away, and was replaced by another scene. The middle of the night. On a towpath by the side of the Thames. And a dead girl on the floor at her feet. She took a moment to adjust, and then bent down to study the girl. She was only young, no older than thirty, with blonde hair. Her throat had been cut. She studied the wound. It had been made with a perforated knife. As she looked at the girl, she heard footsteps behind her. She then realised how this would look. A man, bending over the body of a murdered girl…

She stood up, and saw that approaching were two men. They were some way away and not close enough to see their faces, but she was sure they had seen her. One of the figures was shorter, more stocky, in a jacket and bowler hat. The other was taller, leaner, dressed in some sort of great coat and top hat and carrying a cane. She heard them speak "Another murder…" said the stocky man.

"And the Ripper…" said the other man.

"Oh, no" Izzy muttered, and started backwards. The men started to run towards her, and she ran too, trying to go as fast as she could before they could catch her. As she ran, she slipped, and started to fall towards the black waters of the Thames…


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer - I do not own any of Arthur Conan Doyle's characters (I wish I did) but I do own Lastoric, Isabella and the Byrne family. 

**Chapter 3**

Izzy shouted in shock as she fell towards the murky waters of the Thames. She started to fall, but was stopped by a pair of strong hands grabbing her by the wrists and pulling her upright again. Before she could recover, she was pinned against a wall by the taller man, as the other grabbed her bag. "Give that back!" she said, angrily, in as deep a voice as she could.

The tall man motioned at his shorter friend, and he started to open the bag. Meanwhile, the tall man was still holding her against the wall. The shorter man, who was searching her bag started to take things out - the bag of money, the revolver, the sheaf of mission objectives, a number of passports and business cards, all in different names, and lastly, Izzy saw to her dismay, her mobile phone. The shorter man passed the passports to his friend, and took his place holding Izzy's arm, whilst the other looked at the passports. "Well," said the taller man, in quite an elegant and cultured voice, "who do we have here then?" he opened each passport in turn "Henry Richardson? John Hendricks? Diego Montez? Jeremy Carlisle? Or," he took a double take at the last passport "Isabella Byrne?"

Izzy thought quickly, before realising that there was little to do but own up. She pulled her arm from the shorter man's grasp, took off her hat, and removed the scarf. "It's Isabella Byrne" she said.

The shorter man gasped "Good Lord, Holmes! A woman!"

Izzy turned to the shorter man "Well done" she said sarcastically. She looked up at the taller man "Did he say that your name's Holmes?"

"Sherlock Holmes. And this is my associate, Dr. John Watson. Now, Miss Byrne, may I ask what you were doing here alone, dressed in men's attire and standing over the body of that dead girl?"

"I imagine the same as you. Looking for the Ripper."

Holmes laughed patronizingly "And what would you have done if you'd found him?"

Izzy shrugged, and noticed, that Watson had placed everything back in her bag. She had one chance. She had to take it. "Oh, I don't know" she said, and before either of the men could react, she snatched her bag, slipped past Holmes, and ran away from them, down the towpath, into the blackness. She heard them start after her, but she had the advantage on them. When she had been a Detective Constable, she had assisted on a Ripper-style murder on the towpath, and had studied the whole thing intently on the maps she was given, and had walked it often. There were several small hideaways built into the wall on the side of the path, and if she remembered properly…

Quickly, she slipped into the hideaway, and stayed as quiet as she could, trying not even to breathe. She heard Holmes and Watson run past, and then come back, a few minutes later, talking to each other "where did she disappear too?" asked Watson.

"If I'm not mistaken, Watson, the girl's a native of London. Strangely enough though, she doesn't seem to be a typical urchin or prostitute, and there was something of the lady about her."

Watson nodded in agreement, and Izzy saw him take something out of his pocket. He examined it, "Well, this might give us a clue to her identity. I have never seen anything quite like it…" Izzy looked through the crack in the wall, and gasped. In Watson's hand was her mobile phone. Her only link to Lastoric and her family. Holmes and Watson had walked into the blackness of the night, and Izzy stood there, trying to decide what to do… Perhaps she should leave the phone, try and go on without it. But who was she kidding? She needed Lastoric's guidance. And right now, she needed to hear Barney or Janey's voice on the other end of the phone. She nodded to herself, making a quick decision, and followed after Holmes and Watson, following their footsteps into the dark.

She followed them silently, trying to make sure that her feet did not make a sound on the hard stone cobbles. They walked for sometime - miles, it felt like, until they reached a place that Izzy recognised. Baker Street. Of course! Izzy berated herself for not remembering more of her childhood literature - they had lived here, hadn't they? Number 221B. She held back, knowing where she was now. There had to be other ways into the house apart from the front door. For a second, she grinned, laughing at herself. A couple of days ago, she would have arrested someone for breaking and entering - and now, she was thinking of doing it herself!

She stood and thought for a moment, and then remembered something. All the on Baker Street had gardens, and doors leading into the house from there. She retraced her steps along the street, until she found a small path, which ran parallel to Baker Street, linking up all the gardens of the houses. She moved along it until she came to the garden of 221B. The lights in the house were still on, but she could wait…she was used to staking out houses, waiting for her moment to act.

She waited for about an hour, until all the lights in the house had been extinguished, before moving up the small path to the door, and trying the door handle. The back door was, quite unsurprisingly, locked, but there was a small window open to one side. Izzy reached her hand through the window, and managed to unlock the door, by using the key which was, luckily for her, still in the lock. She opened the door slowly, trying to make sure it didn't creak, and entered the house, moving through the kitchen, and through the ground floor of the house. There was only one door on this floor, and as she opened it, she saw that the occupant was an old woman, asleep on her bed. Izzy shut the door quietly, not wanting to wake her, and then moved on to climb up the stairs.

When she reached the first floor, she saw that the stairs did carry on, and that there was a door to her left, and a door right in front of her. This door had been left open, and the moonlight came through the windows, showing that the room was some sort of lounge. This was probably where her phone would be. She walked into the room and looked around. The room was quite homely, with a fireplace to her left, surrounded by two chairs and a couch. The room was full of artefacts and filing cabinets, and had a small book case, full of books. She looked behind, to see that there was a table with a chemistry set on it, and a curtain, separating this room from the adjoining one. She turned back to see that under the windows opposite the door was a desk.

She moved over to it, taking the gun out of her bag as she did so. She could not be sure, but something in her policewoman's instinct told her that this was too easy…something wasn't right. Izzy cocked the gun, and reached the desk, reaching out her hand to pull open the desk drawer. Inside were various items - what looked like a syringe and a liquid-type substance in a phial, some pieces of paper, some musical score, a small dagger, a gun, a cigarette case with the engraving S.H. and a picture of a very beautiful woman. Izzy closed the drawer, and started to look through the papers on the desk, seeing if there was anything under them…

Suddenly, the lights came on, and Izzy, her eyes half closed due to the relative intensity of the light, spun round, to find herself staring into the faces of Holmes and Watson. She held up her gun, but then saw that Watson had one too, and it was pointed at her stomach. Izzy sighed, frustrated, and put her gun down, behind her on the desk.

She looked back at the two men. Now that they were in the light, she could study them properly. Holmes was seemingly quite young, no older than thirty-five, tall and thin, with a pale, clean shaven face, slicked-back black hair and rather piercing grey eyes. Watson seemed to be a little older, only a few inches taller than herself, with gingery blond hair and a moustache. He put his gun down too, and looked at her quite kindly. Holmes seemed to be studying her, and then slowly put his hand in his jacket pocket, and pulled out her phone. "Is this what you were looking for, Miss Byrne?"

"Yes. I need it back."

"I will give it back, but not yet."

"What do you want, Holmes?"

"I want you to tell me about yourself. Who you are, where you come from, who sent you, and why this thing is so important to you." He reached down and put the phone back in his pocket.

Izzy looked at the two men, and considered the situation. Lastoric had told her that these men could help her - or that she could help them. She needed that phone to get back home. As much as it grieved her to say it, she would have to tell them the truth. She nodded, and Holmes waved her to a seat on the couch. Both men went to sit on their chairs, and Holmes lit a pipe. Izzy hesitated for a moment, before saying "Very well, gentlemen, I will tell you the truth. My name is Isabella Catherine Byrne. I'm from the future."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer - I do not own any of Arthur Conan Doyle's characters, or for that matter any of the TV/Film/Book characters that Izzy might mention… 

Hi! Thank you for all the wonderful reviews!

**Chapter 4**

The room was filled with silence for a minute - Watson seemingly too shocked to speak, Holmes studying Izzy in interest. He considered that she did not look mad, and nor did she talk like someone out of her senses. And she did look so different to the women that usually came to see him as his clients. She was quite tall for a woman, and did not have the rather painfully thin figure that was fashionable nowadays. She was, instead, rather athletic looking, like she ran or fenced to keep fit. She had her black hair tied up rather messily, and was wearing clothes similar to his and Watson's - practical, but not inexpensive. Holmes nodded his head, realising that he actually did believe her. Watson seemed more sceptical though, and made a rather disbelieving noise.

Izzy sat on the couch, hoping that the two men would believe that she was who she said she was. Holmes stood, and walked over to the fireplace, placing his hands on the mantle. He then turned and said to her "Tell me everything about yourself…how old you are, your family…everything."

Izzy smiled dryly, impressed by the detective. She had seen Dan use the same techniques when he interviewed suspects who he thought might be lying about their identity. More often than not, the person could reel off a complicated story which would give them an alibi, but would have to think for a time about their age, date of birth and family. These pauses would convince the officers of the person's disguise. "Very well, Mr Holmes…" she said, and noted the look of surprise on Watson's face. He had obviously thought that she would protest answering the rather intrusive questions. "I am twenty-five years old, born on the 21st May 1982. I live in London, in number 22 Baker Street on my own. I have an older brother, who works for the police, an older sister who is a lawyer, and a younger brother who is studying at Cambridge University. My father was an Irish farmer from County Kilkenny, and we lived there until I was eight. My mother was a doctor from Malaga in Spain. I attended the University of London, and until recently I was a detective sergeant in the Metropolitan Police."

"A woman detective…" muttered Watson under his breath "whatever will the world come to?"

Holmes flashed a smile at his friend, and then said "Until recently?"

"I was sacked - or forced to resign."

"Why?"

"I got on the wrong side of a member of the House of Lords. Arrested him for the murder of his wife, when really it was suicide. Although if you ask me, he drove her to it."

Holmes ignored this irrelevant comment, and continued "So, how did you come to be here?"

"The day after I lost my job, I was offered another with a private detective named Mr. M. Lastoric. He had some sort of time machine and sent me here. My instructions were to try and find out the identity of the Ripper."

Holmes nodded, and Watson started to speak "When we apprehended you, you seemed to know who we were…"

"Lastoric told me that you were working on the case. And of course, I've heard of you both before…"

Holmes turned at this, his ego inflating "People know of my work in the future?"

"Yes…in a manner of speaking." Holmes looked at her in confusion "Erm…you're widely believed to be…well…fictional characters."

"What?!" Holmes exploded "A fictional character?" Izzy and Watson exchanged glances, Watson obviously trying not to laugh. "Do I look like a fictional character?" asked Holmes. Watson dissolved into a coughing fit, covering his face with a handkerchief.

"You're a very famous fictional character" said Izzy, trying to appease him "They put a big statue up of you outside Baker Street station…"

Holmes cried out in exasperation, and collapsed into his chair. "That isn't the point! Do people use my methods to solve crime in your time?"

"Sometimes," Izzy said, not wanting to inflame the situation further by saying "about fifty years ago."

This seemed to be a great load off Holmes' mind, and he relaxed into his chair a little more. "Watson, please desist from that awful noise! If you are in need of a drink, please, leave us in peace, and go and ask Mrs Hudson for a glass of water. Otherwise, I would be most obliged to you if you would die quietly." He then turned to Izzy, and took the phone out of his pocket. "It seems you have upheld your end of the bargain. So, I shall uphold mine. What is this device, may I ask?"

Izzy took the phone from Holmes "It is…I'm sorry, my history's awful…do you know what a telephone is?"

"Yes."

"Well, it is a smaller version of that. With it, I can call other people's telephones. Including Mr Lastoric and my family."

"Amazing" said Watson.

Izzy smiled and turned her attention to the case and to Holmes "May I ask, Mr Holmes, what steps you are taking to track down the Ripper?"

Holmes studied her, as if deciding as to whether he should trust her. Watson spoke up "Holmes, I think we can trust Miss Byrne…"

"Thank you, Dr Watson" Izzy said "But please, it's Izzy, not Miss Byrne"

"Izzy?" said Watson, apparently unaware that a word such as this existed in the English language.

"I'm sure," said Holmes quickly "we will find it a short form of Isabella will we not?" Izzy nodded "If it is acceptable to you, however," Holmes said "I believe we shall call you Isabella. I think Izzy may be rather an anachronism."

Izzy shrugged "What you will, Mr Holmes. I'm not bothered either way."

"Quite." Holmes said. He looked upon Izzy rather disapprovingly and said "Of course, we shall also have to find you some replacement clothing. You cannot run around London in that."

"Very well, Mr Holmes, but I would note that I would find it exceedingly difficult to run anywhere in a fall length dress…"

"Nevertheless," said Holmes "we will find you something. Any suggestions, Watson?"

Watson considered for a moment, "I am sure that Mary might have something, and she and Miss Isabella look about the same size. I will go home directly, and bring you something."

"Thank you," Izzy said.

Watson nodded, picking up his hat and coat. "I will be no longer than an hour, Holmes."

Holmes nodded, and turned back to the fireplace as Watson left, taking some tobacco out of a Persian slipper. Izzy glanced around the room properly, and noticed a painting hung above the fireplace. It was of a large waterfall, and quite pretty, the colours of grey and blue merging together to create quite a spectacular effect. Izzy suddenly recalled something, and said "The Reichenbach Falls?"

"Yes. Have you been there?"

"Never. Were you planning to?"

"Not in the foreseeable future."

"Good."

"Isabella?" Holmes looked at her in confusion, and Izzy realised that it would probably not be a good idea to tell him of his future. That, she was sure, would be the kind of thing that Lastoric would not approve of.

Izzy shook her head, and changed the subject. "Do you smoke a lot of that stuff?" she asked, motioning at the tobacco.

"Do you mind?"

"Well, it is your house, but don't you think it is rather an unhealthy habit."

"I am sure it might be, but it stimulates my brain."

"Like the cocaine?" Izzy said it before thinking, and as Holmes looked at her, she wished she could have taken it back. "I'm sorry. Ignore me, please…"

"How do you know about the cocaine?"

"Your books…"

"Ah. I see Watson has been rather over-reaching himself again… Please, Miss Isabella, I will not try and enlighten you if you do not try and enlighten me."

Izzy nodded, and the two fell into an uncomfortable silence. Holmes looked at the girl, and saw that she was yawning, and that her eyelids were dropping. He hesitated, and then picked up a blanket from his chair, and gave it to Izzy without a word. Then he went to sit at his chair by his desk. Izzy looked after him in regret. They had got off on rather the wrong foot, and it was all her fault, of course…her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of music.

Holmes looked around in astonishment, trying to ascertain what the source of the noise was, and saw that it was coming from the device in Izzy's hand. She stared at it, and muttered to herself "now that's strange…"

She flipped open the phone, and looked at the screen, on it was the name 'Lastoric'. Quickly, Izzy answered it. "Mr Lastoric? How…?"

"I was worried when you didn't call me after you got to the destination. I am using some of the temporal energy…"

"Oh," said Izzy, hoping that saying this might stop Lastoric talking about science to her.

"I hope you are well…how is the investigation going?"

"OK, I guess. I got caught…"

"By the police?"

"No, by Mr Holmes."

"Ah. I thought you might. What's he like?"

"Cold."

"May I speak to him? I might have some information that would interest him."

"If you want. Hold on a sec…" Izzy looked over at Holmes, who was staring at her, and held out the phone to him. "It's for you," she said.

Holmes reached out his hand, and then put the phone to his ear, all the time looking as if he feared the phone might bite him. "HELLO!" he yelled into it, and Izzy grinned as she heard Lastoric cursing down the other end of the phone, half deafened. Holmes and Lastoric talked for some time, obviously discussing the case, before Holmes handed the phone back to Izzy "He wants to talk to you."

"Izzy" Lastoric said "I want you to be careful. I've been looking over the files for deaths that took place around 1888-1900. There are at least fifty, possibly even more that were never accounted for. It seems that the Ripper moved on to killing men as well."

"Alright." Izzy replied "I'll be careful."

"Good luck, Izzy. Remember to call me."

"I will. Thanks sir." Izzy pressed the 'end call' button just as the door opened, and then closed downstairs. Holmes went over to the door, and opened it, to allow Watson and a lady entry. She was very pretty, only a few years older than Izzy, with blonde hair, and blue eyes. She smiled at Holmes, and then at Izzy, who grinned back.

"Mrs Watson, a pleasure to see you again."

"And you, Mr Holmes."

"May I present Miss Isabella Byrne. Miss Byrne, Mrs Mary Watson."

Izzy nodded at Mary, and the older lady said "I have brought you some clothes, Miss Byrne. Would you like some help?"

Izzy nodded, and the two women made their ways upstairs, into Watson's old room. Mary handed Izzy some very modest underwear, and went out of the room until Izzy had changed. She then picked up a corset, and helped Izzy put it round her waist. "Do I honestly have to wear this?" asked Izzy.

Mary smiled "If you want to look like a Victorian lady, then you must." She started to pull on the cords of the corset, making Izzy's waist smaller and smaller. When she stopped, Izzy was bright red, and felt as if all the air was cut off from her brain. She stumbled a little, and Mary held her arm "Don't worry, Miss Byrne, I had quite the same feeling when I wore a corset for the first time. You get used to it."

"I don't want to get used to it." said Izzy, fighting for breath, before pulling the dress on over her head. She looked at herself in the mirror, and had to admit that the dark red colour of the dress suited her. Unfortunately, the effect was rather ruined by the dark red colour of her face. She took some more deep breaths, and her face returned to its normal colour.

Mary looked her over, and said "The dress suits you well."

"It's not what I usually wear."

"What do you usually wear?"

"Well, trousers mostly, unless it's a special occasion. Then I wear a skirt - about down to here." She drew a line just under her knee with her hand.

Mary stared at her "Goodness me!"

Izzy laughed, "Believe me, that's quite modest when you see what some of the other girls my age wear!"

Their rather pleasant conversation about clothes and shoes was interrupted suddenly, by the sound of breaking glass, and Holmes shouting. Mary and Izzy ran down the stairs (quite fast, Izzy thought, despite the dress) and found that one of the windows had been smashed by a brick. Holmes had a note in his hand, which had obviously been tied to the brick. Watson stood at his shoulder, reading it. Izzy walked forward, and Holmes handed the note to her. It read;

**A Warning:  
Do not try anything, Mr. Holmes.  
Or you will suffer.  
The Ripper.**


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer - I still do not own any of Sir Conan Doyle's creations. Unfortunately. 

Thank you very much to Susicar, SylviaStout, SherlockAshFowl and VHunter07 for your reviews. They are very much appreciated! I am so sorry for the rather long delay - what with exams, holidays and university work - as well as writer's block - it's taken me ages to finish this chapter!!

Chapter 5

Izzy passed the letter to Mrs Watson, and then ran over to the window. "You won't see anything", said Holmes, as she reached it. Izzy saw quickly that he was right. A white-grey smog had come down from the heavens to cover Baker Street. All Izzy could see was the faint outline of figures moving in the smog. She sighed, frustrated and turned from the window. "The Ripper seems to be less subtle than he was" continued Holmes "It's only a matter of time..." He was interrupted by a scream - a woman's scream. He looked startled, and glued to the spot for a moment, unable to move. Izzy, however, ran to the door, down the stairs and into the street, followed by Watson, Mrs Watson, and then Holmes. They looked around frantically for the source of the scream.

It was Mary who saw the shape on the ground first. Izzy followed her gaze and noticed it too. She ran towards the prostrate figure, but stopped, as she saw that standing over her was a another figure, holding a long, lethal-looking knife. The figure was tall, and most definitely a man, and his head turned towards her for a moment, before he walked away into the smog. Izzy followed, running, but suddenly felt a hand close around her arm. She looked back to see Holmes standing, holding onto her. "Do not" he said "Venture out in this. You are a young, unchaperoned woman, and it is not just the Ripper you will be in danger from."

"Come with me then..." Izzy said, pleadingly. They were so close. It felt like such a waste.

"He would have the advantage on us." Holmes said "Isabella, we cannot act rashly now, or one of us will get hurt. Besides..." he turned to look back "although grievously wounded, the lady is not dead. She may be able to give us some idea of the appearance of the Ripper."

"But Holmes...!"

"Isabella, we will go back. Is that clear? Otherwise I will not allow you to help to work on this case." Holmes seemed quite stern, like he was chastising a child, and turned back, to help Watson carry the lady indoors.

Izzy stood for a moment in the smog looking desperately at the retreating figure of the Ripper, as he faded into the smog. She shook her head and sighed before turning to follow Holmes, Watson and Mrs Watson into Baker Street. She was just on the doorstep when she heard something - a long, low laugh, and turned. She could dimly make out a figure, some two hundred metres away, staring straight at her. All of a sudden, he seemed to disappear, without trace. Izzy shook her head, and entered the house, closing the door behind her. There was a scream, and she ran up the stairs.

The wounded woman was lying on the couch, seemingly in absolute agony, her face contorted in fear and pain. Watson stood over her, shaking his head "I need my medical bag, but it's at my consulting rooms."

"Go, Watson." Holmes said, and pulled off his black jacket. He rolled up his sleeves, and retrieved a basin of water from the room adjacent to the lounge.

"Mary, come with me," Watson said, "I will return you home on the way." Mary nodded, and glanced at Izzy. Izzy smiled encouragingly at her, and Watson and his wife left the room, assuring Holmes that he would be back soon.

As Watson went out the door, the woman groaned again "Is there not something we can give her - for the pain?" Izzy asked.

"There is nothing..."

"What about some of Holmes' morphine?"

Watson looked at Holmes, and Holmes nodded in agreement. Izzy went to his drawer and retrieved the syringe and the small bottle of morphine. As Watson left, Holmes injected a measure into the woman, and sat back on his heels as the morphine started to take affect. Izzy went to kneel by the woman's side, and started to bathe her face with the water Holmes had brought. Holmes watched her silently.

Suddenly, in a burst of strength, the woman grabbed hold of Izzy's wrist. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice soft, but with a cockney twang.

"I'm Isabella. And this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. What's your name?"

"Susie. I'm a prostitute."

Izzy processed this information without comment, and Holmes did not seem phased either. "Susie, can you tell me who did this to you?"

"No, no..." the woman started to weep uncontrollably, and then began to fight for breath.

"Susie" Holmes said sternly "You have to tell us..." The frustration was written all over his face. But Izzy felt a sudden rush of pity for the woman.

She turned to look up at Holmes. "Holmes. Leave it. She can't tell us any more."

As she turned back, she heard Susie say "He wasn't right..." Her voice failed her, and her head fell to one side, and she breathed no more.

"Susie..." said Izzy, quietly "Susie, wake up. The Doctor will be here in a minute. Susie..."

She felt a hand on her shoulder. "Isabella. Stop it. She's dead. And she told us nothing."

Izzy rounded on him. All the fear, anger, misery and grief she had accumulated over the last few days seemed to spill out of her, directed solely at Holmes. "How could you?" she said "How could you be so heartless?"

"We needed answers, Isabella. Answers! What you did was very kind, but it doesn't help us. We will never solve this case if you don't detach yourself from your emotions. Surely someone taught you that when you became a police officer."

"I want this case solved as much as you do. But we had to let her die with dignity."

"That woman was a prostitute."

"Susie. Her name was Susie. Perhaps she lived with little dignity, but at least she died with some!"

Holmes snarled in frustration. "The sooner we solve this case, the sooner you can leave, and I can get back to normal. And I will not have some mad woman, who does not know her place, questioning everything I do!"

Izzy smirked at him. "I wasn't under the impression that I was staying. If you don't want me here then fine. I'm going after that man we saw earlier. It might be stupid, and it might be reckless, but it's the right thing to do."

"You stupid..."

Izzy grabbed hold of her coat and bag and left the room. As she went down the stairs, she met Watson coming up. "She's dead," she said.

"Where are you going?"

"After the Ripper."

"Isabella..." But before Watson could say another word, Izzy had left the house, shutting the door behind her. Watson shook his head, and went upstairs to find Holmes pacing the floor like a caged animal, and the dead woman on the couch. Watson went over to the body, and just to be sure, took the pulse. He then called to Mrs Hudson to find an undertaker. Lastly, he turned on Holmes. "What did you say to her?"

"Nothing."

"Hardly nothing, Holmes, if she's just stormed out."

"She was being impossible."

"Perhaps you both were. Look, Holmes, you know as well as anyone that she's not safe out there. Not on her own."

"If she's pigheaded enough to go out when she knows that she's in danger, there's not much I can do about it."

"Holmes, she's homesick, and lonely. She misses her brothers and sister and her friends."

"She accused me of being heartless..."

"Perhaps you were, old man. I heard what you said to Izzy. You made it perfectly clear to all of us that your first priority was getting the information you could out of the poor woman, not making her comfortable or treating her wounds. It was Izzy who thought of the pain-killer"

Holmes was silent for a moment. "She's not..."

"What, normal? Of course she's not, not for us. But she is in her view. She's well educated, erudite and intelligent, and she knows it. Perhaps in her time, it's normal for women to be seen as equals of men."

"She can look after herself..."

"She's alone in a city that she scarcely knows. Maybe in her time going through Regent's Park at night is fine, perhaps going through the East End of London is fine, but here, she would be in unspeakable danger if she did so. What is it Holmes? What is it about her that gets to you?"

"She's so different. And I don't mean in the way that she's from a different time. She'd be different if she was a native of our time. Do you think I should go and get her back?"

"Yes."

Holmes nodded, and without saying anything, picked up his cane, his hat, gloves, scarf and coat. "Hopefully, I shouldn't be too long. You say she headed to Regent's Park?"

"Yes. Good Luck, Holmes."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Izzy meanwhile, was walking through Regent's Park, slightly regretting the descision she had made. The park was dark and noisy, and full of people who looked a little worse for wear. But, this was the direction she had seen the shadowy figure ran towards. She passed a group of men, and they whistled at her. One stood, obviously mistaking her for a hooker, and came up to her. "Why don't you come back to my house, love...?"

In answer, Izzy smiled serenely, before kicking him squarely between the legs. "You try that again, and I will make sure you never have children..." Quickly, she made her escape into the fog, leaving the man groaning on the floor. The fog was getting impenetrable now, and Izzy could not see her hand in front of her face. Realising that she could do no more, she sank down onto a grassy bank, and hugged her knees close to her chest. She leant her head on her knees. About five minutes later, she heard footsteps coming towards her, got up, and turned her head to face their direction. As they got nearer and nearer, her blood ran cold, and she was about to cry out, when Holmes' face appeared. Izzy sighed in relief, and sank down on the grassy bank. She was so relieved to see him, she almost forgot for a moment that she was meant to be upset with him.

Holmes looked down at the girl, and suddenly realised that she had been terrified. He schooled his features into a reassuring smile, and came to sit next to her. "Are you quite well?"

"Yes, thank you," she spoke coldly, but Holmes could see in her eyes that she was relieved to have seen him.

"Listen to me, Isabella. I want to say something that I don't often say. I was wrong."

Isabella looked at him, and seemed amused. Her eyes twinkled with undisguised mirth, but her voice was gentle. "Were you? Well, I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have run off like that. I always have tended to be a bit...rash"

Holmes smiled. "I would be pleased to have you stay at Baker Street. Even as we speak, Mrs Hudson is making up the bed in Watson's old room for you."

"Thank you." Holmes got up, and offered Izzy his arm. She didn't quite seem to know how to take this gesture, so Holmes withdrew his arm, and threaded it through hers. Izzy grinned up at him, and they both walked back towards the house.

"Holmes?" Izzy said.

"Yes."

"I hope you don't find me rude..."

"That" said Holmes, smirking "Has not stopped you before."

Izzy grinned and continued. "I was wondering...I haven't read that many of your books, who was that woman in the picture in your desk? Your wife?"

Holmes smiled gently "No, I'm not married. That woman was Irene Adler. She was an Opera Singer, and one of the cleverest women I have ever met."

"She's very...beautiful"

"Yes, she was. She died in Biarritz a couple of months ago."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I kept her photograph not as a love trinket as Watson seems to believe, but as a reminder of a woman I greatly admired and respected."

"I understand. I guess this is the same sort of thing..." Izzy got out her phone and opened the gallery. Selecting a picture, she showed it to Holmes. "This is DCI Dan Summers. My boss. I don't love him, or feel the same way about him as he seems to about me, but I do admire him. And respect him. He's a good officer." Holmes gave her her mobile back and smiled.

"Isabella..." Holmes said "Tell me something."

Izzy looked up at him, grinned and said "Well, that really depends what it is..."

"Why did you choose to be a police officer?"

"Because... I wanted to help people." If Holmes guessed that that was not the whole story, he said nothing. "And I guess I wanted to prove that I could compete with Peter."

"Your elder brother?"

"Yes. Didn't work though. It seems that he's always going to do better than me." Holmes seemed to smile knowingly, but said nothing, instead choosing to have his attention diverted by a group of drunkards heading home after a night out. Izzy sighed "Do you think we'll ever solve this?"

"Lastoric gave me some information that might prove useful, as has my friend, Lestrade. You must not worry, the investigation is coming on." He stopped as they approached Baker Street. "Now that the excitement of the evening is over, Watson and I can enlighten you on the crimes that have taken place over the last months and years."

Izzy nodded "I wanted to thank you Holmes..."

"There is no need. Now come..." he smiled "the game is afoot."


	6. Chapter 6

OK, so after a hugely long hiatus (sorry about that…) hopefully I am now back on track with this story - although I am finding it more difficult to write than my other stories! Please read and review!

Disclaimer - I do not own any of Conan Doyle's characters. Some of the ideas about the Ripper are suggested by different historians. They are not my ideas.

**Chapter 6**

Izzy walked back into Baker Street with not a little embarrassment. She had, after all stormed out of the place like a spoiled child, and she did hope that Watson would not think too badly of her. However, he seemed to be, as in his books, the ever forgiving, ever gentlemanly Watson when Holmes showed her back into the living room. He had apparently arranged for Susie's body to be removed, and was sitting by the fire. When he saw her, he grinned, and passed her a cup of tea, which she took gratefully. She had only just realised how cold she was. Watson did remonstrate with her kindly, telling her that she was not to go out into the fog alone again, until she had got her bearings.

"I really am very sorry, Dr Watson."

"My dear girl, I quite understand how disorientated you must be feeling. Just please do not do that again."

Izzy grinned "I won't. That was quite enough adventure for me for one day."

"Now," said Holmes, "Are you going home, Watson?"

Watson shook his head "There is no need, not really. Mary wanted me to make sure Isabella was alright. And I suppose she may want to know about the Ripper…"

"Exactly," Holmes nodded. "I dare-say you know your history and what Mr Lastoric has told you, but you probably do not know everything…"

"Actually very little…at least I know the official history…the history we are all taught in school…"

"And what does that say?" Holmes said eagerly, hungry for information.

Watson hid a grin "Would you like to sit down, Isabella? My friend is notorious for not being the most practical person…" Izzy smiled and sat on the sofa. Holmes, meanwhile took his place in his own armchair, whilst Watson sat in his. "We are all ears, my dear," continued the doctor.

Izzy considered for a moment, trying to remember her school history, as well as trying to figure out how much to tell. Would any of it effect Holmes directly? Should he not know anything? No, this would not do. She would have to tell them everything, and hang the consequences. This was important. "The Ripper murders have generally been accepted to number five, although Lastoric tells me many more were also committed by the…person. The victims were all prostitutes, the first being a woman by the name of Nicholls, the last being Mary Kelly - which was the most…well, brutal of the murders…"

"Yes," said Watson "We saw the body. It was brutal…terrible. I cannot remember, other than on the battlefield, that I saw such…carnage."

"I know. I have worked in a number of murders, but the pictures of the body of Mary Kelly are more gruesome than most of the stuff I've seen."

"Anything else?" Holmes seemed impatient, and Izzy smiled before returning to the subject.

"Well, as I've said, the Ripper was never found. The general consensus was that he killed himself, or just faded away. As I remember from school, some historians suggested that the Ripper was some member of the Royal Family - Eddy, I think. Others have said that the Ripper may have dressed in drag…sorry, as a woman…in order to escape being captured."

Holmes nodded "Interesting…anything else?"

"Not really. I'm sorry, I'm being useless. Most of the known stuff is in Lastoric's case notes."

"That is quite alright," Watson said, sympathetically. "You cannot be expected to be a walking history book."

"No indeed," said Holmes in agreement.

"Too much lumber, eh?"

Holmes looked at me, surprised, whilst Watson seemed most gratified that Izzy could quote bits of his writing off by heart.

"Well, gentlemen, the floor is yours, as it were."

"Watson?"

Watson nodded, and stood, walking over to a blackboard shrouded in what looked like a black velvet tablecloth (this was definitely a man's home), and pulling the cloth off. Underneath was a detailed map of London, with a number of different coloured pins pushed into it. Izzy rose and went to stand next to Watson for a better look. The pins were coloured red and black. There were seven or eight red pins, whilst the rest - around thirty, were black. Most were concentrated around the Thames and one particular area of London, which, even in Izzy's time was rather infamous for prostitution. "The red pins" said Watson "signify the murders we know that the Ripper committed…the ones that fit the pattern of the way in which he worked for those first five murders. The black pins are the ones we think, beyond all reasonable doubt, the Ripper committed. But he seems to have changed his…"

"Modus Operandi" murmured Izzy, as if to herself.

"Indeed," said Holmes, and Izzy jumped. He had moved so quietly…she had not realised that he was behind her. Holmes pressed a red pin into the map, right in the middle of Baker Street. Tonight's murder. "He is rather extending his territory."

"What I cannot understand…" said Watson "Is how nobody can know who the Ripper is. In such a big city someone must have seen something…"

"Maybe he has some sort of hiding-place," Izzy interjected, then cringed inwardly. Talk about stating the obvious!

"I think we can safely assume that…" Holmes said, but his voice was not sneering, merely thoughtful. "I believe that Watson and I have been in close proximity to the Ripper at least three times, possibly even four, including today at Baker Street."

"Although" said Watson dryly, "We did think we had sighting number five, but it turned out to be you. Thank heavens, I may add."

"Well, thank you Doctor…for that rather dubious compliment."

Watson smiled, and a small smile even tugged at Holmes' lips before he looked at the clock. "Now, I believe that for tonight that is all we can tell you, especially since you look like you are going to collapse from exhaustion at any moment. We will see you in the morning, Watson?"

"Holmes, it is morning. My practice does not open tomorrow. I shall see you tomorrow afternoon."

Holmes laughed "My dear Doctor, no wonder you have put on weight since you have been married!"

Watson smiled, and turned to Izzy "I hope you sleep well, my dear. If he sits down here playing his violin and disturbing your sleep, you have my permission to burn the blasted thing." He lowered his voice "And, my dear, my wife has left you some…night clothing…and other things you might need." He coloured slightly, quite endearingly, Izzy thought.

"Thanks, Doctor. And thank your wife for me. It is really very kind of her."

"Quite alright. Goodnight. Goodnight Holmes!"

"Goodnight, Watson." Watson turned to leave, but Holmes strode over and caught his wrist "Be careful on your way home, my dear friend. I do not think that we are in absolute safety. I also think that it may be advisable to ask your wife to leave London for a few days. Just until this is all over."

Watson nodded "Thank you, Holmes. I will do as you say. I will see you tomorrow." Watson left, leaving the room and it's occupants in an awkward silence. Izzy was still a little intimidated by the famous detective, and he obviously did not know what to say to her. But it was not an altogether unpleasant silence, and their conversation earlier had done wonders for their relationship.

Holmes walked over to Watson's old desk, and pulled out a book, handing it to Izzy. It was a journal, a blank one, with a hard backed cover. Izzy looked at him questioningly. "It is one of Watson's. He left it when he moved out, and has hundreds of the things. Please, feel free to use it. I think I am not wrong in deducing that you are one of those people, like Watson, who think better when they write?"

Izzy took the journal, rather touched, and stroked the front cover. It was true of course. One of her bookshelves at home was stacked with row upon row of notebooks and journals, started when she was twelve, a new one nearly every month. They were full of sketchings, thoughts, ideas and even short stories. Yes, this would be very useful. "Thank you, Holmes," she grinned "That's very kind of you. I'll put it to good use."

Holmes nodded, and said "Goodnight, Isabella."

"Goodnight. Sleep well."

Izzy left the room, and went upstairs, into the room where she had been before. The bed had been made up, and there was a nightgown lying on the bed. Izzy walked over to the wardrobe, and some clothes hanging up, as well as undergarments in the drawer below. Izzy changed into the nightgown, and fell asleep as soon as her head touched her pillow.

--

The next day, she awoke at around eleven o'clock, as the smell of breakfast wafted up to her room. Realising that she was absolutely starving, she washed and changed quickly (having seen too many Period Dramas on television to go downstairs in her nightgown), and made her way down into the sitting room. As she was about to go in through the door, she met Mrs Hudson coming out. "Er…good morning, Mrs Hudson."

"Good morning Miss Byrne. Did you sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you."

"I must warn you Miss, Mr Holmes is in one of his bad moods again. He will probably snap at you…"

"It's quite alright, Mrs Hudson. I have two brothers, one of whom is a complete idiot. I think I can deal with Holmes. Or else I will just do what Watson said and just threaten to burn the violin."

Mrs Hudson laughed, and carried on down the stairs. Izzy walked into the sitting room. "Good morning, Holmes."

Holmes grunted in reply, although Izzy, with a teenaged brother, was quite used to this mode of communication.

Holmes was studying three sheets of paper, and looked rather angry about them. She poured herself a cup of coffee, and spread herself several pieces of toast, before asking, "Holmes, is something wrong?"

"Yes, there is something wrong!" said Holmes, angrily, his voice raised. "No matter what Watson writes in his lurid and fantastical tales, I am not omnipotent!"

"And that bothers you?"

"I have a case. A most singular case. Which I will have to abandon because of the Ripper. I was almost at a point…but no matter. Better a murderous Lord than a psychopathic killer on the streets of London."

"A murderous Lord?"

"Yes. The man hanged his wife."

Izzy's heart raced. "The man's name is not St Thomas, is it?"

"Yes. Lord Anthony St Thomas. Why?"

"You remember I said that I was sacked from the Met for accusing a Lord of murdering his wife?"

"Vaguely…"

"His name was St Thomas. His wife was found hanged. The pathologists said, after a fashion, that it was suicide."

"But you believed differently."

"I do."

"St Thomas is a man of murderous inclinations. It is quite possible for that to travel down family lines. Not common, but possible. This sort of thing runs in families."

"What do you suggest?"

"If I had solved this case, got St Thomas locked up, I could tell you. But I have not. And will not be able to."

Izzy sighed, then glanced at Holmes "Would you like a piece of toast before I polish it off?"

Holmes smiled "It is quite alright. It was remiss of us not to have fed you last night. I am sorry."

He looked up, as the front door crashed open, and footsteps came pounding up the stairs. Holmes reached for his revolver, and positioned himself in front of Izzy, but when the door flew open, it revealed a small boy, not the monstrous Ripper. Izzy breathed a sigh of relief. Thank heavens for that.

"Mr 'Olmes! Mr 'Olmes!"

"Whatever is it, George? For heavens sake boy, spit it out!"

"It's t' Doc, Mr 'Olmes!"

"Watson?" Holmes' face blanched white. "Oh, Lord…"

"George…" Izzy said softly "What has happened to the Doctor?"

"'E was comin' bac' from takin' 'is missus t' station, ma'am. T' other kids is sayin' it were t' Ripper."

"Watson…" Holmes voice was soft, and he seemed utterly frozen.

Izzy glanced at him for a minute and then addressed the boy again "Where is he, George?"

"A' t' hospi'al"

"Thank you, George." Izzy walked over to Holmes and put a hand on his arm. "Holmes. You need to focus. We need to go to Watson."

Holmes nodded, threw a coin to George, and charged down the stairs, Izzy following in his wake, and grabbing two coats as they passed the coat rack. Holmes hailed a cab, and shouted up to the driver. Izzy got in next to him. "Oh, Lord. I will never forgive myself if Watson…I knew I should have asked Mycroft to get him a guard. But he was so stubborn!"

"At least Mary was not hurt. He will be glad of that."

"No one touches My Boswell, no one, without answering to me. I will make sure the Ripper suffers for what he has done to Watson."


	7. Chapter 7

**Ideas…I have ideas! Sorry about the lack of updates. I'll try to be a bit better about it. Also, I would like to thank my dad (Oscar speech or what?) who has been helping me with ideas! **

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of ACD's characters. I do, however, own Izzy and Lastoric.**

**Chapter 7**

What struck Izzy as soon as she entered the Hospital was the silence. It took her a moment to get her bearings. It was so different! She had found herself able to adapt quite quickly to the late Victorian hustle and bustle of the capital; to the different standards of dress and etiquette; and to the rather stilted and formal relationships between friends of either sex. But here…here she had almost expected to see machines bleeping warnings, public address announcements… Her job being what it had been, she had a rather wide experience of hospitals, visiting victims, even having to be the patient herself a couple of times. This place brought it home to her. She was a long way from home.

She shook herself out of her dazed state and concentrated on what Holmes was asking of one of the nurses. He seemed almost as agitated as she was.

"My friend…Watson – John. Doctor John Watson. Would have been brought in perhaps an hour ago…"

The nurse smiled. She was a stout battleaxe of a woman, and this seemed to be her 'comfort the relatives' face. "Yes Sir, I recall him, all bruised and battered he was."

"Where is he, woman…" Holmes was getting rather irritated, and Izzy could see why. It seemed like the nurse was being deliberately reticent.

Her smile faded a little. "I am sorry, sir. I am afraid I can only allow relatives to see him…"

Izzy thought fast. Before Holmes could blow up in anger and agitation, she said primly, "Doctor Watson is my husband. This is my brother."

The nurse's expression changed again. It was back to the rather superficial, reassuring smile. "Oh, I am sorry Mrs Watson. He was taken to the side room of Elizabeth Ward on the next floor, Madam."

"Thank you, nurse," said Izzy, and ran after Holmes as he flew down the corridor, leaving the nurse calling something about not running in the halls after them.

Holmes and Izzy took the stairs two at a time in their haste. There was a short delay at the top of the stairs - "which way, which way?" barked Holmes as if he was asking directions from the walls of the uniformly decorated institution themselves. As a scream echoed down the corridor on the left, Izzy found herself thinking to herself that she had had the good fortune to live in the 21st century…clear signage would have been the least of her concerns. Here she was, barely forty years after Crimea and the impact of Florence Nightingale. That time was a foreign land to her was now brought into sharp focus. Anaesthetics in their infancy…only chloroform really used to a great degree and no real local anaesthetics.

Holmes stopped, and stood frozen to the spot, his eyes wide. Izzy could tell what he was thinking. Was Watson the source of that agonised scream? She followed as the detective roused himself and sprinted down the corridor, towards the door from whence the scream had sounded. They burst onto Elizabeth Ward. In one corner a man, whose face was masked by a grim-faced doctor was being held down by three nurses whilst the doctor attempted to insert… something… Izzy couldn't clearly see, thank heavens… but it was painful to hear. Holmes was ashen beside her. "Watson …" he gasped.

"Holmes!" A voice called from behind them, and there was Watson, lying in a clean bed in the side room.

To say at this point that Holmes was relieved to see his friend would be an understatement of absolutely epic proportions. In a sprint he bounded to his friend and embraced him tightly, grasping the Doctor to him. Watson's face, which only Izzy could see since it was crushed to Holmes' shoulder, was contorted in a strange mixture pain and laughter. He met her eye and nodded at her, as if to say _don't worry, I'm alright_. She stood back, allowing Holmes the space to express his relief.

And then the mask, that of the calm, composed Holmes, was slipped back. He stayed, sitting on the side of Watson's bed, his hand on his friend's shoulder, but when he spoke, his voice was sardonic, but still… an undercurrent of concern there. Sherlock Holmes was not a complete machine. "I am so glad, my dear fellow, that you are in one piece. I despaired of ever solving this case when I heard you had been attacked."

"It is alright, Holmes. I am alright." The doctor seemed to realise the limits of Holmes' emotional expression, and did not mind. In truth, Izzy thought that the look in Holmes' eyes when he first saw that Watson was not that poor fellow in the opposite bed must have made Watson realise the depth of Holmes' regard and friendship for him.

"The little boy who came to Baker Street was quite frantic," said Izzy, "It seems that you were thought close to your grave."

"I am alright."

Holmes started to smile, his good humour returning at the realisation that his friend was alive, and in good spirits. "I thought that perhaps you were the Ripper's sixth victim. But you do not, shall we say, conform to the type of the Ripper's usual victims, do you?"

"Most certainly not, Holmes," retorted Watson.

He was a sorry sight, though. Head bandaged, a black eye, left arm in a sling – "nothing broken, just painful" …and a heavy cut over his right eye. His blood stained clothes lay on a chair to one side of the bed and Izzy could see why it had been thought that his injuries were worse than perhaps they really were.

"Mary … is Mary safe?" asked Watson.

"Yes, quite safe," replied Holmes. "We will send word to her that you are … shall we say …. not quite as dead as we might have been lead to believe on first report."

"I must go." Watson started to get out of the bed, but at that moment that nurse… the battleaxe one, came into the side room and stopped him in his tracks.

"Oh no you do not," she said, forcefully, as if to add, unspoken, _"I am in charge and what I say goes."_ Izzy smiled at the look on the two men's faces. They cowered in the presence of the rather forceful woman. The nurse looked upon the two as if they were two rather naughty boys and turned to Izzy. "You may take your husband home in a couple of days, Mrs Watson…" (at this, Watson had to be poked in the ribs by Holmes to stop him from saying anything). "You must keep him quiet."

Izzy nodded, trying not to laugh, before saying "Well, I shall try, of course. But you know what men are like…"

"Like little children, madam. I have a husband and four sons at home, and they are all the same. Goodnight madam."

"Goodnight."

Grinning, Izzy turned back to the two men who were watching her rather closely. Holmes muttered under his breath, "Where that woman found a man to marry her is anyone's guess…"

"Izzy…" said Watson, "Why did she think you were my wife?"

"We had to tell her that. The woman would not allow us entry unless we were relatives," said Holmes. Watson was out of bed again. "Do you really think that is wise?" asked Holmes, who seemed to be casting furtive looks around, as if worried the nurse was going to return. Izzy smirked.

"I'm not just a patient, I'm a doctor, Holmes, as well you know. I have the benefit at this point in time of being both the doctor and the patient. I know nothing is broken. A few days quiet and I will be perfectly fine."

There was a note in his voice which hinted at a deeper issue. Izzy was about to ask him when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked round and almost started as she found herself looking into the eyes of a doctor... no, of _Lastoric_. He wore a white lab coat… but it was definitely him. He put his finger to his lips… _Shhh_… and pointed outside the room. She nodded and followed, leaving Holmes and Watson concentrated in debate as to whether this particular doctor was truly qualified to treat himself, and if the nurse would return and scold them harshly. They didn't even notice her leaving the room.

Outside on the Ward, Izzy looked questioningly into the face of her erstwhile employer. "I thought you said you couldn't use the machine."

Lastoric spoke quietly. "I am sorry for startling you my dear. I have made an exception, the news is important. I will..." He seemed to give an involuntary flinch. "... I will pay for it later, no doubt."

"Lastoric… you are risking a lot. What is it?"

"You should know …. this attempt on Doctor Watson's life does not fit the pattern of the Ripper at all. At least, not completely. The location is wrong for one thing, although I… and I think Holmes may also believe… that there are other victims who are not attributed to the Ripper, and this attempt is close in type to some of those. But…"

"Then…"

"Your friends have many enemies, my girl. Not just the Ripper." Lastoric twitched again, and Izzy reached out to place a supportive hand on his arm. His voice dropped to the slightest whisper… almost a hiss… as a nurse walked past, "but you are close, my dear. Very close. Do not give up now. You are closer than anyone has ever come before to revealing the identity of the Ripper. I know it. Don't let me down."

With that he was gone. Izzy looked after him; then as he turned the corner into the corridor and out of her sight, she returned to the side room.

Holmes, although very concerned, and full of remorse for not being able to prevent the attack on Watson, had been convinced by his friend that he was not going to drop dead at any moment. They had obviously concluded that Watson was indeed to pull rank with the nurses and return to Baker Street. They looked up as Izzy re-entered… they had noticed her absence. "Are you alright?" Watson asked.

Izzy smiled and felt a rush of fondness towards this man, who despite his injuries, was more worried about her and her disorientation than himself. "I just needed a little air. I will be fine."

Holmes nodded and returned to his main line of questioning. "Who did this?" he asked.

Watson flushed red with embarrassment. "Come along," said Holmes, "you must tell me, was it the Ripper?"

"No" said Watson, "it was… I did not see, Holmes."

"Watson! You are a terrible liar. Tell me, speak up!"

The doctor took a deep breath. "It was two women, Holmes! I was aware of them behind me – I even raised my hat to them as they walked past me – then before I know it they were closing in on me and one struck me to the ground with a rod."

"Poor Watson" said Holmes, "that really is quite… upsetting". He turned and caught Izzy's eye. His eyes were bright with suppressed laughter. Whilst, of course he was concerned for his friend, Watson's red face and embarrassed attitude were rather comical.

"I've survived worse in Afghanistan." The man in the bed opposite started up his screaming again. The three of them winced simultaneously. "This is intolerable. I have had enough. I have not heard such screaming and moaning since my service days. Even then my comrades tried to bear their suffering with grace. I'm not staying one minute longer".

He struggled out of the bed and despite the final protests of the nurse, who scowled at Izzy, seeming to blame her for their exploits, they rather rushed from the side room. Watson thanked the nurses for their care and they passed through the Ward and into the corridor. Holmes and Izzy followed somewhat in tow – Watson's speed was no mean feat for a man who had to steady himself with a cane due to the bandaging on his right leg, which Izzy now noticed for the first time.

Once outside the hospital, Watson stopped. "Too many memories," he said, quietly, almost to himself.

Holmes clapped a hand on his shoulder, his eyes straying sympathetically to his dear friends' face. Izzy too looked up at the hospital in the same sad regard. She did not like hospitals.

"I am relieved to have my Boswell safe and sound" said Holmes, softly, a note of true lightness back in his voice for the first time since they had entered that place.

"Then let's do it, Holmes!" said Watson. "It's time that the Ripper was brought to justice." With that the three made their way to 221B Baker Street, from where Watson sent an urgent telegram to Mary telling her the events of the past few hours - that he was safe and well, despite what she might have heard; and after a drink and, for the gentlemen, a smoke, the three of them started making their plans.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hi, hope everyone is enjoying this! Please Read and Review!**

**Disclaimer - I own Izzy and Lastoric, and that's about it!**

**Chapter 8**

"For goodness sake, Holmes!" shouted Watson, as he entered the room. Holmes looked up, his eyes hazy, his clothes nigh on hanging off him, unshaven, unwashed, in his grey dressing gown and nightshirt. He did not answer, but instead made a dismissive gesture, and continued with the pacing.

Two weeks had passed since Izzy and Holmes had had to rush to the hospital, expecting the worst. Now it seemed that a different 'worst' had come to pass, with Izzy and Watson as the audience. Watson had quickly recovered from his beating, and had come to live with Holmes at Baker Street. He had taken his old room, whilst Izzy had moved downstairs to live in Mrs Hudson's sitting room. Mary had been ordered by her husband to stay in the country with her friend, and although she had been rather reluctant to do so, she had agreed.

For the first week after the attack, Holmes had been the very model of a concerned nurse, helping to change the bandages, fussing around Watson with food, allowing Watson his room so that he would not have to climb the stairs. But the doctor had recovered, and for the last week, Holmes had descended into a depression deeper than Watson had ever seen.

Izzy looked up. She had fallen into a routine, a strange thing, since she was so far from her home. Everyday, she woke up at half-past seven, took breakfast, and spent the next hour, or perhaps two, scouring every paper she could lay her hands on for news of anything that would indicate that the Ripper was on the move again. But nothing - nothing! - had happened. All was quiet on the Western Front, as it were.

The first few days of this week had been, for the most part tolerable, with Holmes playing his violin, pacing the room, studying every little minutiae in both his notes and those of Lastoric, and looking distractedly at the map of London, as though hoping that the pattern of pins would spell out the name of the person that Holmes was pursuing. But after the first few days, the playing had stopped, the pacing had stopped, and communication had stopped. No one left the house, for fear of attack. A good number of people had come to the door, asking for Holmes to solve their problems, or had sent letters. But Holmes did not even see the visitors, and strew the letters into the burning flames. The one time Watson had suggested that Holmes concentrate his mind on something else had led to a heated argument.

"I cannot work on two things at once!"

"This case is driving you half-mad. You must do something else."

"No. This case must have my entire mind dedicated to it!"

"For heavens sake…"

Izzy, who had been downstairs, had burst in at this point, wielding a poker, and thinking that perhaps her friends were being murdered. They had all looked at each other, and it was a mark of Holmes severe depression that he did not laugh at the rather comical sight, but instead threw his arms into the air, and strode into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

It had been a couple of days since this occurrence, and it seemed that Holmes was locked in a world of his own. The tension was almost unbearable. Watson stared at his friend, his eyes heavy, his features downcast. He had no idea what to do.

Izzy sighed, and caught the doctor's eye. She motioned to him, and they left the room quietly. Holmes did not even turn. They closed the door behind them and spoke in hushed tones. "Do you think he slept?"

Izzy shook her head, remembering the loud bangs from upstairs the last night, followed by curses, the scraping of a bow over violin strings and the calling of a boy to buy him more tobacco. "I don't think so."

"That's almost a week, and he has barely left the room."

"Only to go into his own bedroom."

"This will be the destruction of him."

"Indeed. He is back on the cocaine." There was a note of exasperation in Izzy's voice. Her face was worried.

"He finds that it helps."

"Helps?" Izzy looked at Watson dubiously. "I have seen what drugs can do to someone. In my time, cocaine is illegal."

"Illegal?" Watson seemed surprised.

"Cocaine is dangerous. Over a long period of time it can completely break down mental pathways…" She looked up at Watson's questioning glance. She smiled "I live opposite a doctor. She specialises in that sort of thing. And smoking is going the same way…"

"Smoking? What would the world be without a smoke?" mused Watson, as if to himself. Izzy recognised the signs all too well. He was as much addicted to the stuff as was Holmes. But now was no time for a futuristic health talk into the affects of nicotine and tar and stuff.

"Anyway…" Izzy said, brightening a little "In some ways, 'no news is good news', right? No more deaths…"

"Not if you are Sherlock Holmes!" laughed Watson. But he too seemed lighter. "My goodness, Izzy, it is good to have you about. I am sure you are… good for him… if you understand."

"Maybe. But it's not doing us much good, is it?" Izzy found that she was becoming more and more frustrated by Holmes' behaviour. And not just because of what he was doing to his marvellous brain. Try as she might, she could not understand why Holmes was being so inactive in the inquiry. "I always thought Mycroft was the one who let the investigation some to the door" she said testily, "or was that your artistic license?"

Watson looked a little pained, and Izzy immediately felt guilty. "No, it is true." Watson said, quietly, "but Holmes needs something to follow up. And at the present time, there is nothing. The Ripper has gone to ground and all the people that might be able to tell us the kind of man he is are dead. The plans we tried to make when I returned from hospital, they all came to nothing, didn't they? It frustrates him."

Izzy nodded "I am sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

The doctor smiled at her, and said gently "I know. You miss your home?"

"Very much. Not that I am not enjoying being here… but I miss them. Even Peter."

"The one you don't get on with?"

"That's the one."

A knock on the door was answered by Mrs Hudson. A few moments later the now familiar figure of Inspector Lestrade was standing with them outside the door to the lounge. "Any change?"

"No," said Watson, shortly.

"Certainly not for the better, anyway," added Izzy, who had warmed to the little policeman. She understood the protocols and rules of his job, better than Holmes or even Watson could. "Please tell us you have something…"

"I am very much afraid I have not. Is he…sensible?"

Izzy sighed "Well," she said, "he's in a drug-induced haze. He is smoking himself to an early grave. He's a manic-depressive. He's not eaten for a week and that room has forgotten what daylight is like. And don't even start me on the violin. According to Dr Watson's narratives he is meant to be a player of some craft. You could have fooled me."

Lestrade smirked, and even Watson's eyes twinkled a little "My dear, it is perfectly tolerable when he is right minded."

Any further discussion was cut short by a loud shout from the room, followed by a loud crash. The three - Watson, Izzy and Lestrade - looked at each other for a moment, before letting out a collective sigh. "That's the second time this week he has done this. Last time, he tried to explain a very complicated idea involving a net, a harpoon and an elephant gun…" said Izzy.

"It seems he has an idea," murmured Watson.

"For better or worse…" muttered Lestrade.

Watson opened the door, and the three walked into the room. Holmes stood silhouetted against the morning sun now streaming through the curtains which he had moments before roughly drawn back - so roughly that one of them was now lying in a heap on the floor.

"I have been a fool!" he exploded, a look of almost manic delight filling his features.

Watson studied him. "It is not like you to be so demeaning of yourself, no matter how honest." But his eyes were full of delight. Holmes was back to some semblance of normality.

Holmes ignored the chiding and turned to Izzy. "Remind me again, how many Ripper murders were there in your history books?"

"Five for definite."

"Do you not see? We have had the five!"

"Yes," Izzy's voice was calm and soothing "But I do not see how that would help."

"It means that we are at the end. One way or another the Ripper is stopped at this point. Before he can continue."

Izzy thought about this "Yes…"

"I take it theories say he got bored…"

"Bored?" Watson's voice was incredulous.

"Or it got too dangerous, or that he himself died…" Holmes continued, ignoring Watson. "It's not that at all! I am going to be the one who stops him! We need to create the right conditions for the sixth murder - the murder which will never happen."

Watson's face was a complete picture. "But…but…that's terribly dangerous! What if your plan - however well prepared - goes wrong?"

"It cannot," Holmes stated, his tone completely sure of his facts, "There are only five Ripper murders."

Izzy looked at him, worried. She couldn't help but think that a week's worth of deprivations had had a terrible effect on Holmes' powers of reason. Even she could see the snag. A light in the eyes of both Watson and Lestrade told her that they had seen it too.

Quietly, she stated her case. "Holmes, there are five murders attributed directly to the Ripper. There have been, and there will be others which happened at or around the time which were not attributed to him. Your own research - on that very map - has shown up to thirty other cases so far. History records possibilities right up until 1900. Even the murder where we met, and the murder of Susie were not recorded as Ripper murders. If you are planning what I think you are, I would advise you to think again. Another murder may not go down as the Ripper's sixth victim. But someone will lose their life in any event."

Izzy's speech seemed to have fallen onto deaf ears. Indeed, Holmes had not seemed to have been listening at all. He was single-minded, excited to the point of unreason. Izzy felt a great deal of sadness. Such a great mind ruined by drug use… "No," he said. "I am certain I can draw him out, like poison from a wound. He is the poison in London's wound. I can be the doctor who heals it…"

"The problem…" said Watson "With that metaphor is that sometimes the doctor can get carried away, and the poison rebounds on him and kills him instead…"

"He needs to kill again. I can feel it."

Izzy glanced at Watson. He sighed. _Give him room to run with it_.

"What is your plan?" Watson asked.

Holmes' face suddenly grew concerned, as though he realised the weight of what he was going to ask. "I must ask you to make a sacrifice, my dearest and oldest friend."

Watson smiled, knowing that Holmes would know the answer before he spoke "Anything. You know I would do anything to help you."

"It is not for you I will be concerned. We need bait. Bait for the Ripper. Is your Mary prepared to be his next victim?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of ACD's characters. I do, however, own Izzy and Lastoric.**

**Chapter 9**

There was a stunned silence in the room for all of thirty seconds. No-one could quite believe what Holmes had just asked. Izzy was the first to break the stillness of the tense air. Her voice was quiet but firm.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous," retorted Holmes. He appeared somewhat deflated by the rather stilted reaction. He had obviously expected everyone to jump up, applaud, and agree immediately to his plan – to see the logic which he himself saw so clearly. "It makes every sense. It is the only course open to us. You say this case remains unsolved for over one hundred years - that the Ripper continues his reign of terror. I however am not going to be beaten. You do not wish him to strike again?" This last sentence was directed to Watson. His tone of voice had changed, and it seemed almost a challenge.

Watson found his voice again. "It is too dangerous. We have seen how the Ripper strikes. From nowhere. His greatest strength is that no-one knows who he is or how he operates until it is too late. And …." At this his tone softened. He looked into the face of his friend. "It is too much to ask of Mary."

Holmes dismissed his comment with a flick of his hand. "So you will do 'anything' for me, will you….?"

"Yes, I will, Holmes," protested Watson, clearly hurt by the stinging comment. Even Lestrade and Izzy winced at Holmes' barbed comment, as well as the look on Watson's face - unbelieving, concerned and yes, deeply hurt. "But I cannot allow you to put Mary into that sort of position."

"Then all is lost!" exclaimed Holmes, throwing his arms up in apparent despair and turning away from them. The exasperation in his voice was clear. He turned to the mantle, stuffing his pipe full of tobacco and lighting it. His actions were jerky, as if he were trying to keep a great deal of anger inside himself.

Lestrade had been observing the exchange, and stepped forward, his eyes meeting with Izzy's for a second before directing them to the detective. "Mr Holmes! I will not countenance you putting the Doctor's good wife into mortal danger in this way."

Holmes turned angrily to face him. "So Scotland Yard is happy to have this madman on the loose?"

"There are ways and means, Mr. Holmes. Now…" He quickly continued, before Holmes could interrupt, "I acknowledge your singular techniques have proved useful to the Force in the past. But nonetheless, this is a step too far. There are too many things which possibly could go wrong. He will, in the future make an error, and then we … you … will have him."

"No! No! No!" shouted Holmes. "What is it that you cannot understand? Here we have a man, a cold, calculating murderer, a monster of the worst kind, and he is to go unpunished?"

"Not unpunished, Holmes." Watson tried soothing words, but to no avail.

"Yes! Unpunished! He will continue his murderous campaign. He will evolve from Jack the Ripper into something more terrible. Mark my words! I know it!"

Izzy knew what was coming next. Her voice was quiet but firm. "There is logic to your argument." The men turned to look at Izzy, Holmes' face triumphant, Lestrade's unbelieving, Watson's confused. "But, you cannot ask Mary to do this. So you will have to ask me."

For the second time in as many minutes, the room was silent. It was Holmes this time who spoke first.

"I cannot ask you to face such danger. I do not know you. I know Watson. I know Mary. I even know Lestrade here. But ever since you burst so suddenly into our lives two weeks ago, I still do not feel as though I understand you. You are far from home. I cannot ask you."

"But I want you to. What will you do otherwise? You may be some sort of master of disguise, Holmes, but I do not think you can do it. But I can."

Holmes hesitated. He looked at Izzy, and she found it hard to meet his eyes. She was usually pretty good at reading people's emotions, but Holmes she found a little intimidating. He was so … indefinable.

Holmes sighed. Then, to a strangled gasp from Watson, he continued "Very well. If you are certain. Miss Isabella, will you allow yourself to be our bait for the Ripper?"

"Wholeheartedly, yes."

"Miss Isabella…." Lestrade was clearly concerned. "Think, please, for a moment. What this could mean." He turned to Holmes. "It's one thing for Mr Holmes to go dressed up into some of the worst and darkest dens of London. Personally I think he has been fortunate so far, although he will have none of it. But you …. Have you any idea what could happen?"

"Inspector, I have a great deal of respect for you, as one professional to another. In my time I have done this before…."

"But still…" Watson said, shaking his head "It is not right … you are a stranger in this place. You may know your London well, but this may as well be another country…"

"I know it is in some ways different. But in other ways, there is nothing new under the sun. A hundred years cannot change some peoples' vices. Look, I know how to act, what to say. I don't embarrass easily and have talked to hundreds of women whose job this is. I have been out on cold nights caked in make-up and wearing what can only be described as a belt, a handkerchief for a top and an ill-fitting pair of leather boots. I have had a hospital stay due to this sort of operation – a 'sting', we call it – going wrong. So please, don't think I don't know what I am doing. I also have every confidence in you and your men."

"My men…?"

"Well don't think for one minute it's going to be just me and those two alone on those Whitechapel streets. I take it," she continued, turning to Holmes, "that's where we'll go – to the heart of his territory?"

Holmes studied her face. "Yes, that is the intention. The bulk of his handiwork has been carried out in that area."

"Well, then," continued Izzy, "the price for my co-operation is that I want you, Inspector, to have every spare man on duty and for me to be completely observed at all times." She paused before continuing, almost wistfully, "As you say, Holmes, I am a long way from home. I have loved ones. I have no intention of never seeing them again."

Watson had sat down heavily on a chair by the breakfast table. "My dear, only if you are sure……"

"I am sure."

"I will bring my revolver. There will no room for error."

"No, there will not. Thank you, Doctor. I knew you would support me."

"I hasten to add that I still do not think that this is a good idea," said Watson, turning to look Holmes in the face. "At the first sign of danger … the very first sign of danger, mind, we are getting Izzy out of there. I do not care if we are just on the edge of a breakthrough or some such, Holmes. Her life and health are more important than your obsession with solving this case."

The detective looked at the doctor and then nodded. "Of course." Then he turned to Izzy "I must ensure, Isabella, that you are completely comfortable with this…"

"I told you. I could never be completely comfortable, but I am assured that I will be watched, if nothing else."

"Very well! Let us go to it!" Holmes was reinvigorated. The doubts he had expressed seemed to have instantly disappeared like a veil being torn away. He strode towards the door, but half way there, stopped. He reached down to the floor and picked up his violin.

Lestrade moved quickly to the door. "Mr Holmes, I will return to the Yard and advise my superiors of your plan. I will return later – shall we say – four o'clock this afternoon? – to catch up on the latest matters. I will ensure that every spare man will be available. I take it you wish to move quickly?"

Holmes, distracted, put the violin down. Out of his sight, Izzy and Watson breathed a sigh of relief. "Most certainly, we do need to move fast. This is a man who must kill to satiate his appetite for control. But that is no excuse to rush headlong without robust planning. So if you care to join us for tea, that will be well." Watson and Izzy glanced at each other in a shared look of relief. It seemed that Holmes was planning to eat at least.

Lestrade turned and left. As he was part way down the stairs, Holmes called after him, "And oh, Inspector, would you be so kind as to ask Mrs Hudson for breakfast for three, thank you?" He closed the door and turned to face Izzy and Watson.

"So, to the hunt."

He rubbed his hands together, an act which Izzy thought was one of almost childish glee. Moving to the map board, he scanned it, and then moved to the table where his sheaves of notes lay untidily about. He looked up and smiled at Watson. "You know, you must have a word with our housekeeper. The untidiness of these quarters leaves much to be desired."

It was a comment which required an hour's answer or none, and they decided that the latter was preferable. At his beckoning they gathered around the table. Izzy picked up a few loose notes which had fallen to the floor.

"Let us review what we know for certain about this man and his habits," said Holmes. "I know you are not well versed in your history, my dear….." he smiled at Izzy …."but with your knowledge and Mr Lastoric's notes we can paint a good picture of him. Now at this stage you must suppress any concerns you have about telling me something that, by rights, at this point in time I should not know since it has not yet happened. There is too much at stake. Now, the five reported murders show some common threads, do they not?"

"Yes," replied Izzy. "Apart from the obvious, that they were all women prostitutes, you can see that what I know as the 'canonical' Ripper victims – the five I know of for sure – were all murdered in the autumn of 1888 – sorry, last year – in and around Whitechapel. They were all murdered in the small hours, on or near a weekend and in a secluded public place – off a street or yard, or in an alley for example. Each case was more savagely mutilated than the last. Mary Nichols was the first, killed on August 31st. Then came Annie Chapman, with Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes killed on the same day, and finally Mary Kelly on November 9th. They were strangled and mutilated. The police files on the case run through till 1891 and are tagged the 'Whitechapel Murders', with other cases being added – to a total of either eleven or eighteen depending on what record you believe – but those others have more tenuous links to the Ripper. As I said, it's generally agreed that there are the five central murders, and the others are either copy-cat…" Watson looked confused. "Sorry, they were carried out by people emulating the Ripper. Looking to him as some kind of hero. Or else for some reason he changed his methods."

Watson agreed. "Well, if that's the case then these other murders – Susie for example – are of that latter type. They are away from his usual operating area. He is extending his territory."

Holmes meanwhile looked at Izzy with a look that may have been one of respect. "You know your files well."

"I have had time to read Lastoric's notes. And I've had plenty of time to recall what I learned about this. You haven't exactly been the best company over the past few days."

Holmes looked sheepishly at them both. "I apologise. You must accept that I work best when I can concentrate fully on the case in hand. Some may interpret this as rudeness or incivility …."

He looked towards his biographer, who smiled and muttered, "That's alright, old fellow."

They were briefly interrupted as Mrs Hudson brought them breakfast. The next half hour was spent with repeated calls to her as Holmes made up for his deprivations of the past week.

"So…" said Holmes at last, pushing his plate away after his third breakfast, and leaning back on the chair. "We are agreed, then?"

"I have my reservations, you know that," replied Watson. "But assuming Lestrade can muster a good number of men, and we are in attendance with our weapons ready, then Izzy should be no worse off than any single young woman walking those streets at that time of night." He smiled at Izzy. "Which is to say, not very safe at all. I really am concerned for you."

Izzy leaned over the table and squeezed his hand. "I wouldn't expect otherwise."

"And what of me?" asked Holmes, his face alight with a mischievous look, which seemed to suggest that the food he was devouring was re-invigorating his good humour. "Do I not care?"

Izzy smiled, but then thought back to the hospital, and then to her own knowledge of the future of Sherlock Holmes. Especially an event twinned with the coming of Professor Moriarty, which would in a couple of years time, leave Watson a broken man. And all because Holmes wanted to protect him. "Sometimes I think you care too much."

Holmes stared at her for a moment, then said, "It is rather a worrying thing, Watson, that here sits before us a young lady who knows our very futures."

Izzy shook her head. "You know that I cannot tell you. Anyway, the experiences I have learned the most from are those that I have been completely unprepared for."

She looked up, and realised that Watson was looking at her intently, his hazel eyes alight with fear, foreboding.

Izzy forced a grin to her face. "Well, it seems that I have succeeded in my evil plan to rather dampen the mood around here." The two gentlemen smiled, and she got to her feet. "Well, come on. I doubt very much that the clothing provided my Mrs Watson is quite suitable for our nefarious purposes. For once, I really do have nothing to wear."


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer - Holmes, Watson, Mary, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson all belong to ACD. I own Izzy and Lastoric.**

**Chapter 10**

Izzy was starting to wish she had not so readily volunteered to take Mary's place as the 'bait', as Holmes had so tactlessly called it. The air was cold and damp, as though it was trying to freeze a person right through to their bones. She wished for the warmth of Baker Street - the open fire; the smell of tobacco which she had sworn she would never warm to, but actually had; Mrs Hudson's cooking. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering what was going on back in her time. What people were doing. Whether they were missing her. Before she realised that, of course, she hadn't actually left yet. Or had she? She put her hand to her forehead – this time travel concept was most confusing! She had never been particularly good at science, and these things seemed to go right over her head.

She had been deposited on the street near a notorious public house in Whitechapel, not far from the house where Mary Kelly, the Ripper's last known victim, had been found only a few months previously. How she missed the warmth of the house, or even of the carriage!

"Now be careful, my dear," Watson had reassured her as she had stepped from the carriage, leaving the shawl she had been wearing with the gentlemen, before walking a few streets to where she was to take up her station for the evening. "We will not let you out of our sight, but remember it will take a moment or two for us to reach you if you feel in any danger. Act early if you are aware of anything which may concern you. Don't leave it too late."

Those words sounded good in theory, but now, actually on the street, with no sight of the others watching her, she felt alone and exposed. They had discussed what her appearance should be, and had decided on 'well heeled' as the approach for this particular prostitute – if only because those were the only type of clothes they had been able to get hold of in the time available. Izzy had to admit to being rather pleasantly surprised. The dress was a rather garish red in colour, with a moderately low neckline and a hemline just above her ankles. She had been quite prepared for something much worse, and was quite amused when Mrs Hudson had squeaked "Oh, Miss Isabella!" and the gentlemen had looked tactfully away as she slipped a shawl over herself. How standards had changed! She smiled as she imagined their reactions to just a walk down Oxford Street on a Friday morning in her time. Even her work clothes, which she thought quite conservative, they would probably perceive as rather indecent.

There had been the shock, earlier in the evening, of a letter being delivered to Baker Street. It had been about an hour after Lestrade had arrived for tea, and its receipt had almost caused them to consider calling off the whole plan. Mrs Hudson had received it, and reported that it was from a 'young lad, only about eight or nine, tidily dressed'. There was no reason to doubt it was any different from any of the other dozens of letters that Holmes had received over the past fortnight, putting them routinely into the fire. He had almost done the same, but seemed to notice something about it, so that he opened it.

**Mr Holmes.**

**I know what you are doing. **

**I am watching.**

**You will not catch me.**

**You will fail.**

**I will have your life.**

**Jack the Ripper.**

Holmes had dismissed the letter out of hand. "Bluster and tomfoolery!" he had exclaimed before passing it to Watson, whose already fraught face paled as he read. Holmes had noticed and a flash of concern appeared in his eyes before he continued. "So he knows what I am doing? How, may I ask? I am certain that none of us have let on to a soul about this project. Lestrade, your men...?"

"I'd trust them absolutely, Mr Holmes," Lestrade had replied, a little piqued. "I have had to, on a number of occasions. The only ones involved tonight are those I have hand picked – and sworn to secrecy. Twenty-two of my best."

"So unless he has perfected a way of hearing across great distances, I think we can ignore this for what it is – a feeble attempt to discourage us from our course of action." Izzy had noticed with a smile that 'his plan' had become 'their plan', but the letter had brought home just how real and obvious the danger actually was.

So now here she was, 'on prostitute duty' as Lestrade had so amusingly and unhelpfully called it, much to the consternation of the other two gentlemen. She knew as she took up position, in the entrance to an alley some hundred yards from the public house, that at least eleven policemen (with a similar number as 'back up' further away), as well as Holmes, Watson and Lestrade, were watching her, but still she was lonely and – yes, she was more than a little afraid. This was different to the stake-outs she had experienced working with the Met. Then she could rely on radio contact, video surveillance, being 'wired for sound'; here, there was nothing, just the sounds of a bad area of the city - raucous shouting, screams and loud, ear-splitting laughter.

Still, she thought, it's not so bad. At least she didn't do this as a 'living'. So-called. She looked around and in the dark alleys noted at least four other women, hiding in the shadows, ready to ply their sad trade to whoever wished to buy their services for a night or just an hour or two.

A loud laugh right behind her caused her to jump. A sailor, obviously the worse for wear, had left the public house and was moving towards her. "Hallo, m'darlin'", he croaked, his eyes trying to focus on her. "I ain't seen you round 'ere b'fore. Want some fun?"

"Not with you," she replied.

He reached out. "Ooh, she's a bit 'igh and mighty! Baby doesn't want to play?" There was a note of menace in his voice.

"Oy!" The cry was sudden. One of the other women had crossed the street. "This is my patch. 'Oo are you, then?"

"Just looking for a bit of easy cash," replied Izzy, deciding that she was far too nervous to even try her best attempt at the cockney accent.

"Sling yer 'ook!" exclaimed another. Then, turning to the sailor, put her hand round his shoulder and led him away. "Billy, darlin', you know you like me best..."

Izzy sighed. She did not enjoy this sort of thing at all. She wondered what Peter would think if he could see her now. He would not approve. But then again, she thought, he was never called to do this sort of thing, was he?

She looked round. She had attracted some attention from the other women, who had started to advance on her rather threateningly. She decided to move patch. Where was Holmes, Watson, a policeman? She didn't want to move off without them knowing. But surely, they were watching her – they could follow.

Making up her mind quickly, she walked down the street, away from the public house. Within a minute she had turned the corner, and, quickly scanning the scene for other women 'on duty' and seeing none, she settled herself into a doorway.

What could she do? She needed to attract attention. Was it too much to hope that the Ripper would select her on her first night? After all, he hadn't struck in his usually grisly way for almost ten weeks, although she knew the man had murdered in that time. Her mind raced to the night she arrived in 1889, and prayed fervently that her fate would not be the same as that poor girl she had seen at the quay side ...

A man was walking slowly on the opposite side of the street. In a moment she had made up her mind. She left the shadow and walked across to join him, slipping her arm through his, ready to try the cockney accent again. But when he looked into her face, she stopped. She saw old eyes – sad eyes. Suddenly she felt awkward, out of place ...

"I'm sorry" she said, and removed her arm. The man had stopped and stood still, looking at her.

"Have you seen Molly?" he asked, a west country burr in his voice.

"Molly?"

"My girl."

She thought quickly. Was this genuine?

"There are some other women in the next street..."

"My girl." His eyes had started to water. "My dear, poor girl. Daddy's little girl. She said she was coming to London. She wrote to say she had a job. She sent us money..."

Izzy took a deep breath. She knew what was coming. The man sobbed heart wrenchingly. Izzy moved closer to place a hand on his arm.

"She didn't write after Christmas. I wrote to her employer. They'd never heard of her. Turns out she was on the streets all the time. I've come all the way from Exeter to find her. Have you seen her?"

"No, I'm really sorry. But there are other girls in the next street. Maybe they have news?"

"She doesn't belong here."

"I hope you find her."

The man looked into her face, and reached into his pocket, extracting a coin. Izzy stiffened, as he offered it to her. "Thank you love, here. You don't belong here either. Get yourself cleaned up, a room for the night…"

"Thank you. But I can't take it. Keep the money. You might need it when you find your daughter. Good luck."

He nodded and Izzy found herself watching him as he walked off. She found a tear running down her cheek, and brushed it away. More followed.

She returned to the shadow of the door entrance. She had been prepared for anything, so she thought - but not for that. She knew that all the dregs of society gravitated to London – what had someone called it, 'that great metropolis, the sewer of Europe'? But her meeting with the sad old fellow had brought home to her that these were people, not numbers, not statistics, but people. Real people with pain, sadness and suffering.

She noticed that imperceptibly a fog was starting to form in the street. She was only half a mile or so from the river, but this being late, the chill was aching into her. The fog grew thicker. The legendary London fogs, 'pea-soupers', which the Clean Air Act had stopped. The fogs which claimed countless lives every year. The fogs which would make observation difficult.

With a start the last point hit her. It was now so thick she could barely see across the street. The lights in upstairs windows were mere fuzzy patches, indistinct patterns against the blanket which was now descending.

Two men appeared out of the murk, and she watched them pass, ready to run, or scream, or hit out at them, but they walked past her, talking in hushed tones. The fog seemed to weigh the very air down, and deadened every sound. The raucous laughter from the public house had become stilled – it was probably shut by now, it was well after midnight.

She suddenly felt – rather than saw – a shape opposite. A dark shape in a doorway. Time to get going. She moved out of the doorway in which she was sheltering, and rushed towards the corner of the street from whence she had come. She looked behind her. The shape was not there – or was it? The fog was now so thick she was unable to see much more than a few yards.

Turning the corner, she decided to get closer to the public house. If it was still open there would be more people around. The sense of fear – dread – was growing. She could feel eyes. _Of course you can_, she thought, _it's Holmes and the rest of the 'team'_. Even so, she sped up in her walking.

The public house was shut. She pulled out the pocket watch Holmes had given her. Hers had stopped working soon after she arrived. 1.00. A woman's laugh from further up the street echoed eerily. A dog barked – it could have been right next to her, or a mile away, but the fog made if difficult to gauge. Every sound sounded like it was muffled.

She sighed. What should she do? They had agreed that if the weather took a turn for the worse – and it certainly had – then they would abort the mission for that evening, and come again another night. But she had seen something. That shape...

_Give it another hour_, she thought to herself.

It all happened faster than she could react. A rough hand grabbed her by the arm, and she was pulled into the doorway of the house next to the pub. She turned and looked into a haggard face. The eyes were intense, the hair dishevelled. She took a breath to scream, but he clamped his hand over her mouth. His unshaven chin was in contact with her cheek, and she smelled his foul breath...


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of ACDs characters! I do own the others. **

**Chapter 11**

"Shhh! It's me – Holmes."

Izzy looked up into the man's face in surprise as the sardonic, clipped tones of Sherlock Holmes permeated the darkness. She relaxed, stopped struggling and Holmes released her. "What the heck were you doing? It's just as well you told me. I was about to SING you."

His face was blank as he released her. "SING me? What ...?"

"Basic self defence. Stomach, Instep, Nose, Groin. Disables an attacker long enough to get away, or at least call for help. I've used it before. Oh, and believe me, I can run."

"Ah." He ran his finger down the false nose he wore. "At least one part of me would have been protected."

She smiled. "Your breath..."

"It is surprising what Mrs Hudson can find in her kitchen."

"And I thought you shaved before you came out?"

"Hence the muffler."

"Oh. I just thought you were paranoid." Holmes coughed and Izzy grinned mischievously before asking, "Anyway, what are you doing here?"

"We lost sight of you. I had already foreseen this eventuality, of course, so after we dropped you off I assumed this rather tattered form and have been able to watch you more closely than any policeman would be able to. Or even, if I may so bold, dear Watson. He does not go in for this sort of thing. He thinks it rather too ... lurid. So does Lestrade."

"That would be due to your disguises fooling them too often." She gagged, "Dear heavens Holmes! Do you think you could stand back a bit? I hate to say it, but you smell terrible."

Holmes did not comment, but did step back a few steps. "I decided to step in now ..." His voice became more urgent. "It is too foggy, Isabella. We cannot guarantee your safety. We must stop this task for tonight and regroup."

"No. Give it a bit more time. I know there are no guarantees. Was it you in the other street, opposite me in the other door?"

"What? No, I was on the street corner. I was unaware of any other person."

"Then I think ... _he_ is here."

She got no further in her explanation. A scream rent the still, heavy air. They both started and looked around. The cry had come from the street from where Izzy had come a few moments before. Where the shadowy figure had been.

There was a rush of feet, and Watson broke out of the mist with three policemen in tow. His face was a mask of anger and not a little fear, but when he saw Izzy and Holmes were quite well, relief seemed to sweep over him. "Thank goodness! When we heard that scream…"

"Not here!" exclaimed Holmes, interrupting, and gestured towards the origin of the cry. "Quickly. He is there."

He turned to Izzy. "Stay here. It is not safe."

"No way. I'm safest with you."

With a sigh Holmes accepted the inevitable and they both ran to catch up with Watson and the policemen, who had already turned to run towards the source of the scream. As they turned the corner, they saw that everyone in the vicinity, had gathered around a shape on the ground. Holmes pushed his way through, pulling off his false nose, teeth caps and wig, and thrusting them roughly into his pocket.

Watson was crouched next to the still form. He looked up. He was pale, and as they moved closer they saw why. Izzy felt sick.

"No good. Looks like he started to strangle her, she resisted, and she was then knifed in the abdomen. Eviscerated. Nothing we can do."

Holmes knelt beside the still form of the woman. Her eyelids flickered. She looked into his face, and seemed to recognise him.

She gasped. "Don't ... go ... lie ... on ..."

And she was gone.

Holmes was silent for a moment, as if considering the words, and then stood. "Do we know who she is?" he asked, hopefully.

"She knew who you were…" started Izzy, glancing at Holmes.

"I know her." In surprise they turned to Lestrade. "This is Louisa Govan. We have had concerns over her for a number of weeks. One of my sergeants has been trying to keep her under surveillance, but with not much success. He considers that she is a member of some sort of gang of female criminals. Personally, I think the whole idea's ridiculous. But he obviously considers there is some value in the hypothesis. Drug dens, gambling houses, brothels... she is supposedly involved in any number of illicit activities. He has done much work but she is always able to be one step ahead."

"And I too have seen her before." Watson had stood up and in the light of the police torches was now studying her face. He gave an involuntary shudder. "She was one of those two women who set upon me two weeks ago."

Holmes was studying the woman. "This is truly interesting. I wonder if our friend the Ripper is working in consort with this criminal gang, or whether the two are unconnected? I wonder if he saw her as a colleague or a rival?"

Lestrade took the three of them – Holmes, Watson and Izzy – to one side, whilst his officers started tidying up the crime scene. One had gone into an adjacent house and procured a bucket ready to wash the street clean of the blood.

"If they are working together, this would be a serious development. Has anything been said to any of you that could shed any light?"

"This is wonderful!" exclaimed Holmes, applauding rather sarcastically, Izzy thought. "My dear Lestrade, you are learning! You took the words right out of my mouth! But please, before you wash the scene, may I...?" and without waiting for an answer, he fell to his knees and started surveying the ground around the body, and the body itself.

Izzy meanwhile thought back to the hospital, where Lastoric had appeared on the Ward. _Your friends have many enemies, my girl. Not just the Ripper... _

It was an obvious statement of course, but it did muddy the waters, surely? She decided not to share the comment.

"Very well," said Holmes, standing up and returning to them. "We will learn nothing more here tonight." Izzy looked at him and saw a gleam in his eye. There was something, then, and he wasn't yet going to share it with Lestrade.

Back in Baker Street, Mrs Hudson had stoked the fire. It was now roaring in the grate. They were all chilled to the bone, but thankful that they had got through the night unscathed. Drinks were quickly served, and the gentlemen proceeded to unwind with tobacco, whilst Izzy took a bath. By nine o'clock that morning they had snatched a couple of hours' sleep and were ready to review the night's events. The day's papers were as usual spread on the table.

"Come, Holmes," said Watson. "Both Izzy and I know you saw more than you were letting on to Lestrade."

"Yes, I had my doubts as soon as I heard the commotion. It did not – let's just say sound right for a Ripper attack."

"In what way?"

"Because it was a man's scream."

In silence, Izzy and Watson looked at each other in wonder.

"Then, what you're saying is ..."

"That our lady friend was the attacker. But she found herself up against an opponent who knew how to defend himself and fight back. Now doubtless we will never know for certain if her attacker was the Ripper – although the method of killing was absolutely his - but I am intrigued by the fact that she – Louisa – made the first move in opening the attack."

"What do you think? How do you explain it?" asked Watson.

"I think there is a conspiracy being developed, and that I am wholly, or part of, the target. This woman evidently knew I was on the streets tonight, and probably knew that I would be wearing disguise. I can surmise that she attacked this man on the basis that she thought he was I. He, however, was – probably - the Ripper. Certainly he defended himself as though he were the Ripper. He was clearly prepared, with a weapon to hand."

"So I can count myself lucky that I moved when I did," muttered Izzy.

"Indeed," replied Holmes, his eyes turning to Izzy with unusual warmth, and not some little regret. "I believe that had you not moved away, then we may not have been talking to you this morning."

He stopped, took a deep draw on his pipe, and leaned over to her. Then he took a deep breath, as if steeling himself to say something. "At least we still have you safe with us. It was irresponsible of me to put you in such danger, and for that I apologise." Turning towards Watson, he continued, "And to think that I could have asked your wife to put herself in such danger as well. My desperation to solve this case got in the way of my judgement and I must again offer my most sincere apologies".

Watson was quick to his defence. "That's alright, old fellow, but you must let the matter rest now. Let it rest in the knowledge that history does not record any further Ripper murders."

Holmes considered this. "No, it will not do. There is one still free who walks the streets of this great city, who has butchered with unspeakable savagery and who MUST be brought to justice. Anything less is – unfair. Unfair for his past victims. And we have the added complication of this new attack." His voice dropped. "But for Lestrade's comments, I would otherwise have thought that it bore the marks of being Professor Moriarty's handiwork. But he seemed quite clear that Louisa was a member of this ... gang. It is a puzzle. But one which I cannot give my time to."

"Perhaps it's hero worship," commented Izzy. "Maybe she modelled herself on Moriarty."

"Hmmm," replied Holmes, almost as if to himself. "Perhaps someone in this hornet's nest does. But be sure of this. The Ripper is toying with us. With me. This is ... personal."


	12. Chapter 12

**Thank you for the reviews - they are very much appreciated!**

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of ACD's characters. All the others (like Izzy and Lastoric) belong to me though.**

**Chapter 12**

Lestrade arrived during the late afternoon, as darkness fell. He was ushered into the living room by Mrs Hudson and immediately wished he hadn't.

"You can't take the attacks personally, Holmes!" Watson was trying to get a sense of perspective into the discussion, but Holmes was having none of it.

"My dear Watson, I have now received two ... communications from the Ripper. He is obviously trying to discourage me from continuing in my investigations. Of course what it does, is to encourage me more..."

"Maybe that's what he wants!" Izzy was getting exasperated with Holmes as well. All day they had tried to talk him down from one dangerous scheme after another. When reading the detective stories in her youth, she had always thought that Watson's records, published through Conan Doyle, overplayed his temperament. She had now realised, having observed him for over two weeks, that Holmes was a much more complicated character. He seemed to genuinely have no concept of danger. "For heavens sake, we could have both been killed last night!"

"Lestrade! How good to see you!" Holmes seemed quite glad for the distraction.

"Now then, Mr Holmes, you're not getting carried away, are you?" He winked at Izzy as he said this. Izzy smiled in return. Of all the people she had met, he was the one who had grown in her estimation the most. While he was not up to Holmes' or even Watson's standards of deduction, he was intelligent, tenacious and level-headed.

"Not at all. We were merely discussing the merits of a plan for our next step."

"You really are certain that the Ripper is deliberately challenging you?"

Both Izzy and Watson made disbelieving noises, but Holmes continued. "I am. My reputation has gone before me – thanks to my biographer here. Murder seems not enough for him. It has got too ... easy, perhaps. He wants to play a game of cat and mouse, perhaps, staying one step ahead of me. He can but try." With this last comment, Holmes drew himself up to his full height and addressed the three of them. "Last night, we were not successful in catching him. However we do know certain facts, and one above all seems to be becoming very clear. Where I am, he goes."

"But how does he know, Holmes?" Watson couldn't help thinking that Holmes was overstating his own importance. Although that of course was how Mr Sherlock Holmes always viewed his cases. He was, after all, clearly the best. His own recognition of that fact often gave him the edge in an investigation – he was not afraid to follow leads and test theories when others would not.

Holmes indicated for them to be seated. "It is clear, is it not, that we have two completely separate cases here. They happen to correspond – to overlap - in a limited number of aspects, but never the less they are two separate cases. That was proven to us last night – or should I say earlier this morning ... there was obviously no clear plan on either party as regards the other. The one was waiting to murder a prostitute to satisfy his desire in that regard. But doing so only knowing that I was near. The Ripper's 'cat and mouse' game, as it were. The other thought she was carrying out a direct attack on me. As we now know, due to a case of mistaken identity, the one snuffed out the other. Were it not such a serious matter, it could almost be called poetic justice."

"So where do we go from here, Mr Holmes?" asked Lestrade. "The way does not seem clear. Which do we concentrate on? Both?"

"No!" objected Holmes. "I will only give my time to one. Let me think..."

And with that, he went over to the window and stood, looking out onto the street, seemingly oblivious to the other three in the room. It did not last for long.

"Lestrade's sergeant seems to have a number of sound leads on this criminal gang of which Louisa was a member. We can surmise they are plotting against me, although we cannot at present know the reason. He is making progress, however slowly. Their methods appear primitive and brutal. I have no doubt that a breakthrough will be made. On the other hand, the Ripper ... he has taken his campaign to new levels. As I said earlier, it has become somewhat personal."

"So you're still going after the Ripper." Izzy's voice expressed her resignation to this fact.

"Yes, I am. The other matter can wait."

"In a way, I'm glad. Mr Lastoric said a fortnight ago that we were close. Apart from last night, things do seem to have gone a bit cold. I really don't want to let him down. He's invested a lot in the Ripper case."

"Very well, so let us plan our next step..."

He was interrupted by the ringing of the front door bell. Holmes seemed to be expecting it. They waited as Mrs Hudson dealt with the caller, and after a short moment, the door opened and revealed a young boy.

"Ah! Excellent!" exclaimed Holmes, striding to the boy. "Come in, come in!" and with his arm round the boy's shoulder, escorted him into the room and sat him down on a chair by the window. "Now you are...?"

"Jimmy, sir," replied the lad. He was tidily dressed, washed and clean.

Holmes turned to the others. "Allow me to introduce Jimmy Govan to you."

"Govan, as in ...?" enquired Watson.

"The same." Holmes' tone of voice indicated that details of the overnight events should not be recounted. He continued, "I am very sorry to hear about your mother."

The boy stifled a sniff. Izzy passed him her handkerchief, which he accepted.

"Oi'm sorry, sir," he continued, addressing Holmes. "Ma mam told me t' keep a eye on yer, t' tell 'er what time yer wen' ou', hoo visi'ed..."

"Yes, but that's not all, is it, Jimmy?"

"No, sir. Oi was ... 'anging abou' ... this gent came up 'o me. All dressed up 'e were, as if 'e were going out t' dinner, or sommat. He asked me if I were in'erested in Mr Holmes ..."

"To which you said 'yes' of course ..."

"Yes, Mr Holmes. And 'e gave me a note an' asked me t' give it yer."

It became clearer to Izzy. "So YOU were the lad who delivered the warning letter last night."

"Oi'm sorry, miss, I dunno what t' letter was, he jus' asked me t' deliver it. Oi'm sorry if Oi've done wrong. Ma mam always told me never t' ge' into trouble."

"What did he look like?" asked Holmes, "this gentleman who gave you the letter for me?"

The boy thought a moment. "Oi wouldn't say he were old. Ma ma's age. Can't say any more. No' ugly, anyway."

Holmes seemed disappointed. He had obviously expected more. He was about to continue his questions when Izzy spoke.

"Do you have anyone to go to?" She was amazed at how well the lad was coping with the loss of his mother.

"Thank you, miss, yer, ma mam's guv'nor said she would take me in. Miss Helena is kind. She's brilliant."

"Miss Helena?" asked Watson.

"Yes," replied Jimmy. "We all call 'er that 'cause 'er second name's so funny."

Izzy continued, "That's good to know you are being looked after. I was worried about you."

"Oh, Oi'm alrigh', miss," he replied. "I ain't got no da, with Miss Helena it's like being in a big gang. It's fun."

"Tell me, she told you to come today, didn't she?" asked Holmes.

"Yes, sir. Jus' t' say thank you for being with ma mam when she ... she.." He flushed. "I'll be goin', sir?"

Holmes nodded, reached into his pocket and withdrew a coin, which he gave to the little boy. Jimmy beamed and thanked Holmes profusely before leaving. Holmes watched from the window as he made his way down the street, where, at the corner, he was met by a well dressed woman, wearing a veil. Then they were gone, into the thickening fog. Holmes turned to the others.

"I think you will find, Lestrade, that your sergeant will be interested in interviewing young Jimmy. I think you will find 'Miss Helena' will be an important player in the gang he is investigating."

"How did you know he would come?" asked Watson.

"He has been outside most of the afternoon. It has taken him this long to pluck up the courage."

"So," said Izzy. "It's the Ripper, then is it?"

"It is indeed."

"And the plan?"

"To bring him to justice," said Holmes, his voice holding a fire that Izzy had not heard before. She understood the sentiment, though. The fact Lord St Thomas had escaped justice still galled her.

"Mr Holmes, I'll be off," said Lestrade. "I suggest you give it a rest this evening – it's another dank and foggy one, I see – and in the morning maybe you'll feel different. Maybe ..." He paused as if weighing up his words carefully. "Maybe this case – this Ripper – is going to be one of those that remain unsolved."

"Thank you, Lestrade, I will take your ... counsel," replied Holmes. "Good night." Lestrade left the room, and a few moments later they heard the door close.

"There is nothing more to be done tonight," said Watson. "I'm ready for bed. I feel as though I've missed a complete night's sleep."

"Unsolved, indeed!" Holmes' frustration had worked off onto Izzy. Perhaps Lestrade was right. A wave of disappointment swept over her. She looked across at Holmes. Maybe once he slept on it he'd feel the same? But Lastoric had thought she was so close. How could she return without a solution? Had he missed something? No, surely not. Holmes wouldn't miss anything.

Thinking about it all had given her a headache. She groaned to herself. There were no headache tablets in 1889.

"I need a breath of fresh air," she said.

"Do you wish for company?" asked Watson. Holmes looked up at her, his eyes concerned.

"No, I just need some fresh air. I've got a bit of a headache. I'll only go to the end of the road. I will be back in five minutes."

She turned and left the room, closing the door behind her. Holmes walked over to the window, looked out to see her starting to walk down the street, and drew the curtains. He looked across at Watson, who had picked up the paper again. Miss Isabella did have a certain effect on him, he conceded. Perhaps it was time for the violin, to help soothe his nerves.


	13. Chapter 13

**Dear heavens, that was a bit idiotic, wasn't it? Not the best idea she's ever had. Will she meet the Ripper? Or will she be OK? Sorry about the shortness of this chapter - the next will be longer…**

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of ACD's characters. I do however own Izzy and Lastoric.**

**Chapter 13**

Izzy walked down the stairs and took her coat which was hanging on the coat rack. Slipping out, trying not to disturb Mrs Hudson, she opened the door and left the house. She looked up and saw Holmes watching her from the window, a gentle smile on his face. Knowing that he was watching, she felt safe.

The fog was swirling around her, so she wrapped the coat closer to her, and started to walk the few yards down the road she needed to clear her head. She walked maybe forty yards and paused, taking a few deep breaths. Then she turned to head back.

All of a sudden, she sensed she was not alone. She looked up towards the window of 221B and saw with a start that Holmes had drawn the curtain. Then, worse, she realised that, what with her tiredness and her throbbing head, she had left her bag on Holmes' desk, and thus with it her revolver. All that she carried on her person was her mobile phone, and her set of keys for 221B. She felt for the keys in her pocket, and ran her fingers over the end. Not very sharp, perhaps, but sharp enough to do some damage if need be.

She heard a soft footstep behind her. Taking a deep breath, she turned, to look into a face that she knew well.

"Lastoric?" Izzy's voice showed her shock and surprise. "What are you doing here? You gave me a fright. You really shouldn't appear out of the mist like that!"

Lastoric's voice, was full of barely concealed excitement. "My dear Izzy, I'm so sorry I made you jump. I've been waiting for a chance to speak to you again. How are you? Well?"

"Er…fine thanks…"

"Oh good. Izzy, my research has found something overlooked for generations. A conclusive lead! Like I said at the hospital, you were close – but I got closer! My dear - I know the identity of the Ripper."

"Fantastic! Well done! Let me call Holmes and Watson."

"No, my dear. I'm afraid they cannot know. At least, not yet. Continuality of time. There is a problem that I didn't foresee when I sent you here. They will know by the time all of this is over. You can tell them to their faces. It will just be unfortunate that the … solution … will not be in the name of Sherlock Holmes."

Izzy shrugged. "Oh, OK. I guess you know best."

"Which one is 221B?" Izzy pointed it out, and telling her to stay put, he walked slowly over to the house, took a letter out of his pocket and posted it through the door.

"What was that?" asked Izzy as he returned to her.

"Just a note to Holmes. Telling him not to worry, that you will be back soon. I do worry about him. He's not quite as the fiction records him. Watson did not fully engage us with the more excitable shades of his nature, perhaps."

Izzy nodded, remembering the scenes of panic and alarm at the hospital before Holmes had found that Watson was relatively unscathed. She felt a thrill of excitement flow through her body. Could it really be that one of the greatest unsolved crimes in history was about to be resolved? What a night for it, though - the darkness, the fog, cut right through her soul. But what an achievement – this would be something to tell Peter - Izzy Byrne, little sister, was on the brink of one of the greatest achievements in police history.

She looked excitedly up at Lastoric, fairly bouncing in anticipation, when she noticed something "What's up with your leg?"

"It's using the machine. Every time I do so, I suffer some degradation. That's why I try to avoid it unless it's really important. It has really affected me badly this time. It will pass, I hope. Anyway, to the hunt; this way, Izzy." He said these words dismissively, and Izzy registered surprise. It was as if Lastoric did not care about the potential permanence of his injury.

She followed him to a cab which Lastoric had obviously commandeered. He seemed impatient to get away, and once she had boarded he clicked the horses into a gallop.

They travelled for sometime, at least half an hour, until they reached an area she knew to be leading to the path along the side of the Thames. He alighted, giving a hand to Izzy.

As she took it and stepped down, she experienced a remarkable case of deja-vu. They were back at the quay side in the East End docks where she had arrived just over two weeks before. She also realised with a start that it was not far – as the crow flies – from where she had spent the previous night as 'bait' for the Ripper.

He walked on, leading her towards the Thames. His limping was not getting any better, and as a result their progress was slow. She suddenly felt an unease about going on. She did not want to go on the tow-path, back to that first murder scene. She'd seen too much blood shed.

Her thoughts flew to the previous night – to what she had seen in the foggy darkness. One individual, coated and gloved, a half shadowed face. Watching. waiting.

All of a sudden, it hit her. The coat he now wore, the gloves which covered his hands, his voice when excited, his face when half in shadow. The limp he now had.

With a thrill of panic and excitement in equal measure, it all made sense.

Lastoric, who had apparently spent his whole life working to solve unsolved crimes, was the biggest criminal of them all.

Lastoric was Jack the Ripper.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer - All usual disclaimers apply. I own Lastoric and Izzy.**

**Chapter 14**

Izzy froze. Her heart beat nineteen to the dozen, and she stood, staring in fear and dread, looking at Lastoric. He turned to face her. "Something wrong, Izzy?" For a moment, Izzy looked at him, but then realised that she had to pull herself together. She had to stall him, catch him in the act. She had to do something. She continued, following Lastoric, although her heart yelled to her to get out of this_! Run and don__'__t look back! Go back to Baker Street and get help!_

As she walked, she placed one hand in her pocket, and her fingers brushed against her mobile phone. It came to her in a flash, and she tapped a few buttons - thank heavens she had used this phone so much she knew the buttons off-by-heart. Engaging one of the applications, she carried on. He took her by the arm and they continued along the tow path, Lastoric now in a state of high excitement.

A few minutes later, they reached their destination, and he stopped. Izzy noticed something in one corner. A small, thin thread - a trap? Or something more sinister? Important to Lastoric anyway. He briefly turned away from her, as if viewing this place to make sure that he had set the scene correctly, and she pulled the key out of her pocket, and used it to cut the thread. It was done in the blink of an eye, and as Lastoric turned she put the key in her pocket. Izzy spoke, praying that her voice would sound natural. "So… where is this lead of yours?"

He grinned at her, a strange, evil, unearthly grin that chilled her very soul and left her trembling. "Oh, my dear girl, I think we both know that there is no lead. You know what I am. Who I am. What I have been doing. I suppose the only question you have is - why?"

She nodded. "Asking that had crossed my mind. Do you know, I read the stories of Sherlock Holmes when I was younger. Peter used to tease me so much. In one - one that Holmes has yet to live, he says that some trees grow to a certain height before going bad. I think it is the same for you. You have spent your whole life solving crimes, with little or no reward. So you decide to become infamous. Commit one of the greatest crimes of the nineteenth century. Fool 'the Great Sherlock Holmes', a man you are not fit to even address. And still, outwardly retain utmost respectability. I feel sorry for you."

Lastoric looked a little surprised, but then smiled. "I see you have it all worked out. Well done. But, oh, there is so much more." He reached into his jacket and produced a knife. "Please do not try anything my dear, I would hate for any evil to befall you. Unlike that young lady last night. She may have knifed me, but I, Jack the Ripper, finished her."

Izzy's mind raced. _Keep him talking. Something may show up._

"So, what is the plan now? Are you going to make me another of your victims?"

He seemed genuinely surprised. "Good heavens, no. Why would I want to do that? There are only five Ripper victims, you know that. I just need you to lure Mr Holmes from his house to here. I have no wish to harm you. There is no need. You can walk away from this, unharmed, if you so choose. The note I posted was, in essence, a ransom. Something along the lines of, 'Come here, and she will be safe'. We just need to wait."

"Poetic."

"Indeed. I will be the man who not only killed Sherlock Holmes, the so-called greatest detective in the world, but destroyed his reputation as well! And, of course, that of his faithful biographer. Do you think I have modelled myself well on my hero? I even use his name – Moriarty Lastoric."

The coolness and lucidity of his explanation was terrifying. Izzy fought to keep her voice even. "You're wrong. That won't happen. It can't happen. I've read the stories. Holmes doesn't die here."

Lastoric laughed. "Ah, but time can change. You believe a little too easily when you are confronted by things you do not understand. Who told you it couldn't change? I did. But, my dear, time is a flux. Even the smallest of events can change the course of history. Perhaps – and that will be just too ironic…." He gave a whimper of barely suppressed laughter …. "perhaps it is tonight that he moves out of the realms of fiction into reality. As the failed detective. Yes, that would do. That would be fitting."

"Good Lord, you are mad."

"Perhaps."

"He will not come, you know. He will not fall into this trap."

Lastoric laughed. "He will come. Of course he will come. He thinks you are in mortal danger. If I had Watson here, the effect would be the same. He will not allow you to die in his place because of his own pride. Look at what happened at the hospital. He is a good man."

"Better than you."

"And good men are foolish! Weak! Strong people such as I, we always know which 'buttons' to press. Holmes cannot arrest me. There is absolutely no proof against me. What can he do, take me to the Yard and say that he believes I am the Ripper? Me, a man of obviously good class, well educated and bred? A man who, remember, can in effect disappear at will? He would be laughed away. No, my dear, I will kill Holmes and Watson. With your help."

"Never."

"No? Consider your position, my dear. I can go home at any time. But not you. Have you forgotten that I am the only one who can get you home? Do you want to go home, Izzy?"

Izzy stared at Lastoric for a moment. She had to go home! She wanted it so much! She wanted to see Janey and Barnaby, and heck, even Peter again. When Izzy spoke, her voice was quiet and trembling. "I would like that."

Lastoric let out a shout of laughter - cold, hard laughter, and Izzy winced. Suddenly, she heard footsteps. She had, of course, known they would come, but by heavens, she had hoped they would not. The Ripper's voice rang out: "Ah, good evening, gentlemen. It is good to see you again."

Holmes and Watson walked forward into the light. Holmes wore an expression of absolute anger and hatred, whilst Watson's expression was softer. He scanned the path, and found Izzy, standing next to Lastoric. The question on his face was as clear as if he had shouted it. _Are you alright?_ In answer, Izzy nodded imperceptibly. Watson smiled quickly at her, and Izzy felt like her heart would break. This good, honest, true man with his beautiful wife, killed by her hand. And Holmes! He who was also so good, a man who brought people to justice. Both men, her friends, and she had been used to kill them.

"Let her go, Ripper," said Holmes, his voice unshaken and belying the look on his face. It was almost as though he was discussing the winners at the races rather than murder, death, abduction.

"I must warn you, Holmes," said the Ripper, pointing at Holmes with the knife he held, "I have a trap laid for you. At this moment, sharp blades mounted on a spring mechanism are pointed directly at you and your biographer. One wrong word, one wrong step, and you will be ripped to shreds."

"You monster!" yelled Watson.

Lastoric smiled. "Do you know who I am, sir?"

Holmes scowled. "You are the Ripper. I need know no more."

"Ah, but my dear man, there is more. Izzy, my dear. Why do you not introduce us?"

Izzy sighed. "Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, this is my… boss. Mr. Lastoric."

For the first time, Holmes' face registered surprise. Watson, meanwhile, looked absolutely dumbstruck. "Why did you do it, Lastoric?" he asked breathlessly.

"Because I could. Why not? Murder is easy, as it were. I, or my alias, Jack the Ripper, has become infamous, and who cares if some worthless prostitutes die in the process? All I have to do is occasionally step into my time machine and come here to keep the trail warm. To keep the interest going. To ensure the true object of my attention is brought to the point where I want him to be. You, Mr Holmes. You. Here, and now."

"But you said you couldn't use the machine – that you would 'pay for it' afterwards!" exclaimed Izzy.

"My dear girl, you are far too trusting of your peers…." Lastoric's voice taunted her. "You have made many mistakes. I told you at the Hospital that you were close to the Ripper. You were. You were standing right next to him. You think you are a good detective, yet when you arrived here you were not at the site of the fifth Ripper victim as recorded by history. But had I not told you that I would place you at the scene of the latest Ripper murder? Did you not see? Did the penny not drop? You have been such a disappointment. You failed at the first step. You're pathetic. Oh, I can see why the Force fired you. But I have enjoyed my game." Izzy turned away, humiliated, beaten.

"The violence of the attacks…" Holmes murmured. He stared at Lastoric, as if looking at him made him fell sick. "The death of Mary Kelly… the body was mutilated. Last night …. Louisa Govan was ripped open …."

"I have some knowledge of anatomy…"

Izzy, smarting at the vicious rebukes, tried to pull herself together and think rationally: _So that__'__s why it was so easy for him to be at the hospital. For all I know he could have been working there for ages, going back and forth with his time machine, knowing that we__'__d come…._

"And Isabella?" said Holmes, "Why…?"

"Do you know, Mr Holmes," said Lastoric, getting more excited with each word, "why I brought Izzy here? A pretty young girl? A woman of brains, of some minor intelligence, just enough for my purposes … she betrayed you, you know. Firstly, without knowing it - getting close to you, befriending you… quite irresistible as a friend, is she not? And latterly, directly. Do you know, just now, I offered her a choice. Your life, or seeing her family again. I fear, my dear Holmes, that she chose her family."

Izzy's heart was breaking but Holmes was staring intently at Lastoric. She couldn't catch his eye. Lastoric meanwhile was almost raving.

"You have no proof against me, detective. You and Watson will die tonight. You will fall by the hand of a truly great detective. A better detective. Then Isabella and I can return to our present time, and I will be able to publish the true identity of Jack the Ripper – my 'scholarly research' will reveal the greatest cover-up in history – Sherlock Holmes and his faithful Watson, working in cold blooded murder, together as 'Jack the Ripper'."

"Never!" shouted Izzy.

"Silence!" bellowed Lastoric over her. "You are already facing a life of being in my power. Oh, gentlemen, the awards and acclaim I will win! The story I will weave! All those under cover investigations in the East End. Lestrade blundering around, unknowingly giving both of you your alibis. All of it a smokescreen for your murderous activities. Doctor Watson's literary rubbish, sold to Mr. Conan Doyle, providing cover for what I will say goes on when you're both away from 221B Baker Street. Just think, Mr. Holmes! How does it feel to move from being the most celebrated fictional detective to being the most vilified factual murderer, in the blink of an eye? History changes tonight!"

Lastoric had become so animated he was breathless. He stopped and calmed himself. He was obviously in considerable discomfort from his wound.

"But enough. To business. The time has come. It has become too dangerous for me. I have tired of the game. That blasted woman last night nearly bested me. Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson – I am about to end that phase of my life as the Ripper, and you are about die, and take on that mantle, in my place. It is time to say goodbye."


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer - I do not own Holmes or Watson, or for that matter, any of ACD's characters.**

**Chapter 15**

Lastoric reached into the breast pocket of his coat, and produced a revolver. He tossed the knife into the river. He saw Watson's blank look.

"So they can find the murder weapon with your bodies… And I prefer a revolver, especially for the work I have to do now… Now, gentlemen, move to the quayside, please. Backs to me. Quickly."

Then, surprising Holmes, Watson and even Lastoric, Izzy laughed. The three men turned to her, and Izzy spoke, although there was a hardness, an intensity in her eyes and a tone of voice from her lips that none of them had heard before. "Lastoric, you are a blasted fool! Giving away your plans, your identity. I have met petty criminals who are smarter than you. Yes, I want to go home. More than anything. But, what you did not allow me to say before was that I could never face my family knowing that I was responsible for the deaths of two thoroughly good men." She stepped forward, feeling a good deal braver now - encouraged by the look of shock on Lastoric's face and the looks of admiration on the faces of Holmes and Watson. "And I have proof. Proof Holmes and Watson can use to bring this to an end."

"What?" Lastoric's voice was angry now… and was that fear in his eyes?

Izzy smiled, reached into her pocket, and pulled out her mobile phone. Pressing a button, Lastoric's voice rang out: proclaiming himself as the fiend, Jack the Ripper.

"It's you, see?" she said. "Remarkable thing, this phone. DCI Summers, in fact, updated it for me. I can record about two hours of conversation on it. But believe me, this is the most interesting thing on there." She threw the phone to Holmes, who caught it, and grinned at her.

"Well done, Isabella," he said, his eyes gleaming. "I think Lestrade will think this very good evidence."

Lastoric's eyes narrowed, and his anger blazed. "You…" he whispered.

Watson smiled at Izzy. "That was very good, my dear. I do not think Holmes could have done it better himself."

Lastoric continued, his voice a low, threatening whisper. "I have dealt with hundreds of stupid girls…" He looked to Holmes, who had made to walk forwards, and raised his gun. "No, my dear Sir, remember my little trap. Even if it does not get you, it will get your dear Biographer. And I will continue…" He turned to Izzy. "As for you, I will deal with you, too." Izzy closed her eyes. At last she realised what was going to happen. A quayside in Victorian London. Well, at least it was unique.

A single shot rang out. Holmes and Watson both cried out in shock as they saw the crimson stain grow quickly over the front of Mary's borrowed dress. With a gasp, Izzy took a step forwards and grabbed hold of Lastoric. He moved quickly, meaning that she stumbled and fell to the ground. She stared pleadingly at Holmes and Watson.

Lastoric now pulled the thread, as Holmes and Watson ran towards him. But the trap did not go off, and the thread came loose in his hand. Izzy gasped, as blood came to her lips: "I broke it…"

"Now you…!" With a scream Lastoric turned to aim the gun at Holmes, but his movement was slowed by his wound. Holmes got to him first, grabbed hold of him, and threw him against a wall, knocking him cold. The gun fell from his hand, scuttled across the ground and dropped off the edge of the quay into the river. Lastoric lay slumped on the cold slabs of the quay side.

Watson, meanwhile, had run to Izzy's side, and was trying to staunch the blood flow, a look of horror and determination on his face. Izzy caught his hands. "No, Doctor…" she whispered "It's no good. And you know it." Watson nodded and took hold of one of her hands, whilst Holmes came to her side, and took the other.

Watson reached down and brushed the hair from her face. "I am sorry…" he whispered. "So sorry…"

Izzy nodded. "I know."

"Is there nothing you can do, Watson?" asked Holmes, his voice sharp, terse.

Izzy smiled, reached up, and with the tips of her fingers, stroked his cheek. "Hush. There isn't a thing he can do."

Holmes nodded, and Izzy's eyes blurred. It was becoming darker… harder to see. Watson bent in closer, Holmes following his lead. "It is alright," said Watson. "Do not fear. We will stay with you until the end. I promise." Watson's voice broke.

Izzy looked to Holmes. "Do you know, I'm proud?"

"You should be, child."

"I helped catch him… the Ripper. But… you do realise no one will believe…"

"Not Scotland Yard, I know. I intend to take him to my brother. I am sure the government has some place we can put him."

"I am the Ripper's last victim," Izzy stated. "Perhaps I always needed to be."

"You know we cannot tell people…" Holmes said.

"What?" Watson's voice was disbelieving. "Not tell?"

"No," Izzy gasped in agreement. "People cannot know about time travel. That would _really_ mess everything up…"

"And, my dear Watson," Holmes continued, "It is bad enough being thought of as a work of fiction, without introducing such concepts as time travel…"

Izzy tried to laugh, but sharp pain burned through her body. She closed her eyes, and opened them to find Watson bending further over her, whilst Holmes had moved to support her head.

"Apologise to Mrs Watson, will you, for ruining her dress…"

Watson smiled. "I do not think she will mind. Are you sure that you do not wish us to try to get Lastoric named as the Ripper?"

"It is… enough… to know… that you know… it…" Izzy was finding it more difficult all the time to speak. She looked up into the faces of her two friends. "Thank you…" she whispered. "Thank you…" Then, as the clouds parted and the moon shone bright over them, she passed from this world into the next, and all was still.

Holmes stood, walked away, hiding the fact that his eyes were gleaming. Watson did not hide his tears, bending over her body, and wiping the blood from her face. Behind him, he heard stirrings, from Lastoric. A great rush of anger came to him, and he turned. Walking to Lastoric, he pulled him to his feet and struck him. "Murderer!" he yelled "You killed her…"

"Watson!" shouted Holmes, but Watson was not to be appeased. He struck the man again, and he fell backwards. Before either could catch him, he was over the quayside. As he fell his head struck a timber post and he landed, unconscious, in the dark water of the Thames. Face down, he disappeared beneath the surface.

Holmes walked over to his friend, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps this is for the best. We can tell people, anyway, that the man was a strong suspect. Weapons will be found with him."

"And Izzy?"

"Izzy…" Holmes used her nickname. It seemed to suit her better than Isabella, he realised. Izzy made her feel more alive. "We will give her a funeral, a burial. We will not say how she died. I think Mycroft can help us."

Watson nodded "Are you really not going to tell anyone of this?"

Holmes looked at Izzy's body and smiled sadly. "It feels like we should, does it not? She needs a memorial, despite the fact that really she never was… however …." He dropped Izzy's phone to the ground and stamped on it, breaking it into pieces. "Time travel…. No, it's too much, Watson. There must be no anachronisms. Mycroft has a friend at the Diogenes Club, a Mr. Wells. He shares your taste in lurid fiction. Tell _him_. But please, not the detail. Perhaps he would like to write a book about the concept. But do not write of this business yourself, Watson. The world is not ready. But we _can_ perhaps help her in other ways."

The two men bore the body of the young woman to the carriage, and later arranged for her burial, in the corner of a beautiful old churchyard in a quiet country village. From then on, the tombstone of Isabella Catherine Byrne (1864 - 1889) was one of those strange, old graves that always have flowers on them, despite the fact that no one knows who the person buried there actually was. In time, perhaps someone would try and research the girl, and find next to nothing, apart from the very small amount of history that a 'mystery benefactor' introduced into the National Archives.


	16. Epilogue

**The last chapter - heavens, took me long enough!**

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of ACD's characters.**

**Chapter 16**

"Detective Sergeant Byrne?"

Isabella looked up from at the secretary calling her name and stood. Well, this was it. This was what would decide her future. Isabella's - or Izzy, as she preferred to be called - stomach seemed like it was full of a myriad of winged insects doing some sort of aerobatic display. She tried to calm herself, telling herself that there was nothing to worry about, and that everything would be fine. She walked towards the big, imposing looking door and opened it. Inside sat three official looking men behind a table. This was it. Her disciplinary.

The reason for her being given a disciplinary seemed not a little unfair. She had, yes, made a few errors in dealing with a certain case, but if the person involved hadn't been a Lord, none of this would have happened. She and her superior officer, Detective Inspector Bridges had been called to the scene of a crime in the Belgravia area of London, where a woman had been found hung. She was the wife of a Lord Christopher St. Thomas, a member of the House of Lords. Halfway through the investigation, DI Bridges had been struck down with some mystery illness, and due to staff shortages, Izzy had been given responsibility for the case, and an opportunity to prove herself. She had arrested Lord St. Thomas, the evidence meaning she was absolutely certain of his guilt. However, the day after his arrest, the pathologist had got in contact with her to say that there had been a mistake. Lady St. Thomas had committed suicide. Despite Izzy's apologies, Lord St. Thomas had been absolutely furious, and had demanded that she be subject to a disciplinary. Which was the reason that she had today come to New Scotland Yard.

What was even worse was that Izzy's brother worked at The Yard. Izzy was one of four children, and the second youngest. The eldest was Peter, who was in his early thirties and a Detective Inspector. He was hailed as one of the best Inspectors in the Met by his superiors, and Izzy found it a little difficult to keep up with her high-flying brother. It was why she worked twelve or even fourteen hour days, signed up for various training initiatives, and never seemed to have much of a social life. When her colleagues were going out for a drink at the end of the day, Izzy worked for another four hours, then went to the gym, and then went home. Izzy's sister was twenty-eight and a bit of a super-woman. Janey managed to juggle two small children, a husband, and a job as a barrister, and still always looked blonde and immaculate. Izzy was the exact opposite to her older sister in many ways. She had never had a boyfriend, was the only one of her siblings who had inherited their mother's dark hair and eyes, and was tall and athletic, whereas her sister was petite and slender. Izzy's younger brother, Barnaby, was 19 and at Cambridge University, studying Law and International Relations. His ambition was to work for the government. Izzy cringed as she pictured her sibling's faces if she lost her job. No, she would think positive.

She nodded to the three men in front of her and took a seat. One, she recognised as her boss, DCI Daniel Summers. He smiled at Izzy encouragingly. He had always had a bit of a soft spot for the young and dedicated Sergeant. The other two men were slightly familiar. They were both older, with greying hair. One, she remembered, was Daniel's boss, Detective Superintendent Gladstone. The other also looked familiar but she couldn't quite place him…

"Detective Sergeant Byrne," DCI Summers said "may I introduce Detective Superintendent William Gladstone and Sir Robert Matthias." Izzy felt a lurch in her stomach, when she realised who the man was. The Commissioner. The Head of the Metropolitan Police. Izzy realised then how much trouble she was in. Summers continued, "Detective Sergeant Isabella Byrne."

Gladstone looked at Izzy coldly and said, "I hope, DS Byrne, you realise the gravity of the matter."

"Yes sir."

"Lord St. Thomas is one of the most affluent members of the House of Lords in the country. He could make us doing our jobs very difficult."

"I understand that, sir."

"I do not see how you could have gone so wrong."

"I'm sorry, sir, I truly am. But I did receive erroneous information from the pathologists on the case…"

"You cannot shift the blame to someone else, DS Byrne. You should have checked the pathologist's report and asked for a second opinion."

"I did sir. The problem was that my suspect was about to leave the country. I believed that I had all the evidence I needed to arrest him for murder."

"Well, you were wrong, weren't you?"

"No, sir. I stand by my decision."

"What?" Gladstone looked stupefied. Daniel meanwhile was studying her intently. The Commissioner was smiling, nodding, as if to say, "Go on."

"May I?" Izzy glanced at the Commissioner.

"By all means, DS Byrne. You have the right to defend yourself."

Izzy opened the file she had brought with her. "In the bedroom of Lord St Thomas, I found this," she said, passing one of the sheets of paper from the file to the Commissioner. "It is a diary entry of the present Lord's great-grandfather. It is a detailed description of the murder of his wife, by hanging. It seems the present Lord has been studying it in great detail."

"This means nothing!" exploded Gladstone.

"Let her speak." The Commissioner's voice was firm.

"Thank you, sir," Izzy's continued. "I decided to do some research into the great-grandfather of Lord St Thomas. The previous murder took place in the year 1889. The case was pursued by Scotland Yard, but they were unable to come to any conclusions. Later the case was taken by an anonymous private detective who got rather further than the police ever did. He, however, had to stop investigating the case part way through, possibly because of his involvement in trying to solve the 'Jack the Ripper' murders."

Gladstone made a disbelieving noise, but Izzy continued. "Anyway, after that investigation ended unsuccessfully, all went quiet. He evidently returned to the St Thomas case and managed to uncover a number of further facts which revealed that Lady St Thomas' death was likely to be murder. However before a case could be brought, Lord St Thomas committed suicide. The detective's case notes make the point that there was somewhat a history of murderous imbalance in the family, and he notes that it could be expected that any ancestors of St Thomas may have the same 'tendencies'."

"Rubbish!" shouted Gladstone. "Do you really expect us to take any notice of this pseudo-scientific rubbish…"

"Do you mind?" Daniel's voice rose over that of Gladstone's. "I happen to believe DS Byrne has raised an interesting point. Carry on, please."

Izzy shot a grateful glance at Daniel, before continuing. "I went back to the house of Lord St Thomas, and found a witness that had been somehow missed in the initial enquiries - the Lord and Lady's young son, Eric. Now the boy said that his parents had been arguing violently for the past four weeks. He was terrified, by the way. Eric continued by asserting that he had seen his father putting up a chandelier hook on the night of the murder. I went and found it in the exact place that the boy had said. I then went to view the body. The pathologists were right the first time, before…" Izzy turned her eyes on Gladstone, who went red, "before Superintendent Gladstone paid them a rather threatening visit and told them to change the result. I have seen the initial report. The correct report. I can confirm that there ARE marks of violence on the body, as well as DNA fragments worked deep into the bruises – the DNA of Lord St Thomas."

"Anything else?" The Commissioner smiled at her. Gladstone shifted uneasily in his chair.

"Actually, yes. A number of calls were made from Lord St Thomas' phone after the time the boy says that the murder was committed. To Superintendent Gladstone."

The Commissioner glanced at Izzy and then at Gladstone. "Very good, Detective Sergeant Byrne. I believe that Gladstone, St Thomas and I will have a chat. This is the end of this disciplinary hearing, and I will record that there is no case to answer. Summers, Byrne, you may go." The Commissioner then asked his secretary to show Lord St Thomas in, as Daniel and Izzy left by the other door.

"Well done, Izzy," said Daniel. "I knew you could do it."

"Thanks, Dan. Worked out well, didn't it?"

"Extraordinarily well. But where did you find that information? The detective's case notes, for example."

"Now, that's the weird thing. I got them from the Force's solicitors. They were delivered to my desk, by hand, a few days after I took the lead on the case. Apparently they had been in the strong room for the last hundred or so years, with an open file note that they were to be given to 'The Investigating Officer, Byrne, after the occasion of the death of Lord St Thomas' wife'."

"Who from?"

"There was a letter with the notes."

"What did it say?"

Izzy grinned. "Heaven knows what it _means_. It just says '_Dear Lady, we thought you might need this. Yours ever sincerely, S. and J._'."

"And they are…..?"

"I have no idea."

"Remarkable."

"It also came with another note, a condition if you will. I have to go to a churchyard in the country and continue a tradition of putting flowers on the grave of a namesake - one Isabella Byrne, 1864 - 1889."

"Why?"

"No idea. She's no relation - at that time, my family was in Spain and Ireland. But whoever they were, those men saved my job. I don't mind doing that for them."

Dan smiled. "A promise is a promise?"

"More a contract, I think, Dan."

"When are you going?"

"I was going to go on Saturday."

"Can I come?"

Izzy glanced at Dan and grinned. "To make sure I don't get attacked or something?"

"Maybe. And maybe because afterwards we could have a meal in a little country pub somewhere."

Izzy grinned. "DCI Summers, are you asking me on a date?"

Dan tried to look nonchalant. "Perhaps."

"Then actually" she said, with no little surprise, "I would love to."

"Thank you Izzy." Dan beamed at her, squeezed her hand, just for a moment, and then made to walk into his office. "Shall I bring roses for the grave?"

"Red ones. I don't know why, but I have a feeling she would like it."

"Alright. See you later."

Izzy smiled and continued down the corridor, basking in the glow of her triumph at work, as well as a date with Dan. It seemed, she mused, her feelings towards him were somewhat changing. This was going to be a really good day. Could it get any better? Suddenly, she was stopped short by bumping into her big brother, Peter. He looked a mixture of annoyed and embarrassed. "Hello, Pete." Izzy smiled. One over on big brother. Fantastic! Yes, it could!

"Hello, Izzy. I… er… want to say… well… er… well done… I guess… yes… well done."

Izzy laughed, but tried not to be nasty. "How long did it take for you to pluck up the courage to say that?"

"Well… long time, I guess."

She reached forward and placed a hand on his forearm. "I really am gratified to know you care." Peter snorted, but did smile, somewhat reluctantly perhaps, but still… "Would you like to join me, Janey and Barnaby for a meal tonight? He's back from Cambridge and staying at mine. What do you think?"

Peter hesitated, then nodded. "Alright."

"Carver's Arms, nine o'clock. See you there."

Isabella Byrne walked off smiling. As she did, she looked fondly at the sheets of paper in her hands, the sheets of paper that had saved her job. S. & J.? Smith and Jones? What sort of a _nom de plume_ was THAT! She was beyond caring.

Yes, she thought, yes, today would be a good day. A very good day.


End file.
